


Hearts Go On

by 1f_this_be_madness



Category: A Night to Remember - Walter Lord, Queen (Band), Titanic (1997), Titanic: First Accounts
Genre: "I learnt to love him that night" - Harold said this about Jack, Affection, Affectionate Insults, Alternate Universe, Alternate Universe - 1910s, Alternate Universe - Titanic Fusion, Altruism, Angst, Awkwardness, BAMF John, Band Fic, Banter, Best Friends, Bisexuality, Boxing & Fisticuffs, Brian is a violinist, Brian is getting all sorts of songwriting ideas, Brian is very fond of John and vice versa, Brian's out here being the biggest mother hen, Broken Bones, Brotherly Love, Changed rating to mature because there is about to be a lot of death, Cheeky Roger Taylor, Class Differences, Class Issues, Crying, Dancing, Declarations Of Love, Does it count as slow burn if there's a kiss and nothing else, Drinking & Talking, Emotional Baggage, Emotions, Engineering, Epic Friendship, F/M, Family Issues, Fashion & Couture, Firefighters, First Kiss, Friendship/Love, Gen, Guilt, Harold Bride is a badass and I think we need to talk about this, Heart-to-Heart, Historical, Historical References, Hopeful Ending, Hugs, Implied/Referenced Character Death, Implied/Referenced Child Abuse, Injury, Insecurity, John is also a nerd, John is so good with kids I can't, John plays both guitar and bass, Leaving Home, Loneliness, Love bears all things and never fails, M/M, Men of the sea, Morse Code, Mostly focused on friendship but slight shipping if you care to see that, Nicknames, Not A Fix-It, Not really positive how things worked in the 1910s but here we go, Overt shipping in chapter fifteen, POV Third Person Limited, Panic Attacks, Period Typical Attitudes, Protective Brian May, RMS Titanic, Radio operations old boy, References to Depression, Roger is a dork, Roger is still a drummer, Sad Brian May, Self-Esteem Issues, Self-Hatred, Sensitive Brian, Shakespeare Quotations, Shy John Deacon, Shyness, Sleepy Cuddles, Slow Burn, Smoking, So much bravery, Song Lyrics, Song: 39 (Queen), Song: Sail Away Sweet Sister, Song: Save Me (Queen), Song: Teo Torriatte (Let Us Cling Together), Songwriting, Suicidal Thoughts, Suicide Attempt, Survival, Swearing, Sweet, Tries not to cry and cries a lot, Triggers, brian is a nerd
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-06-17
Updated: 2020-07-10
Packaged: 2021-03-03 23:55:03
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 26
Words: 39,480
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24764233
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/1f_this_be_madness/pseuds/1f_this_be_madness
Summary: A nigh unsinkable ship, she was called. Touted by the newspapers as, for certain. White Star had outdone itself with this beauty and she sets out into a fog that breaks round Southampton into a blue and sunny morn, across the upper Atlantic and onward towards America, bringing hopes for new lives with her.Brian May is one who hopes - tentatively - that he shall go on and be better, though leaving home ain't easy. He's got a good friend who helps him, though. And there are certain to be some surprises in store aboard the majesticRMS Titanic.On a ship of dreams, anything can happen.
Relationships: Brian May & Roger Taylor, Harold Bride & Jack Phillips, John Deacon & Brian May, John Deacon & Brian May & Freddie Mercury & Roger Taylor, John Deacon/Brian May, Minor or Background Relationship(s)
Comments: 138
Kudos: 28





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

  * Inspired by [To Tell You When I Find You](https://archiveofourown.org/works/22790842) by [quirkysubject](https://archiveofourown.org/users/quirkysubject/pseuds/quirkysubject). 



> As I have said, this piece is inspired by a lovely au created by quirkysubject. The story captured my imagination and voila! Some instances in this story correspond to particular chapters of her work, but mine is more focused on the lower-deck atmosphere so to speak. Thus, there will be a large amount of Brian and John. I will include references to such chapters in case readers want to familiarise themselves with the inspiring work before reading, or alongside with, mine. Though I was told this story can also stand on its own, so the choice is yours, dear readers.
> 
> I thank you very much, quirkysubject, for giving me permission to write this companion piece and for cheering me on, so to speak. Many thanks <3
> 
> As always, I hope to do justice to the people of whom I am writing.

Brian never should have started this. Never should have come in the first place, or at the very least gone on with Roger's mad thoughts on the pair of them becoming millionaires - or billionaires, or whatever it was - certainly. Rog's imaginative spirit tends to run away with him gladly, but Brian is typically known as the sensible one. Even as he was always told to get his own head out of the clouds, he was usually adept at helping others keep theirs. Mostly his best friend.

Alright, solely his best friend.

He hasn't any other people to do that for. And that isn't him being down, it's simply what is. He'd had Tim at school, and then he had Chrissie, and met Roger. Two out of three of those relationships died so what does that say about Brian? He sighs now as he curls his hands around the gunwale, reluctantly allowing Rog to tug him along as that high sweet voice tells him to "get out of your head, you numpty, and come on! There's loads to see on this brilliant ship, mate!"

And she really is brilliant, Brian reasons. A marvel of technology, the _RMS Titanic_ is fifty-odd metres tall, two hundred sixty-eight in length. When at gross capacity, she can bear 46,328 tonnes of weight, and has twenty-nine boilers and one hundred FIFTY-nine furnaces to power her engine. He and Roger had heard a few of the specs when passing an incredibly bored looking group of upper class passengers, and Brian had soaked the information in. "Won't get cold then," Roger had spoken up with a grin after hearing the furnace information. "First case a' that in a ship I've been on. The rats in third class will be nice and toasty too." He'd shot a wink at a woman who heard his last phrase and let out a scandalised aborted shriek in response. Brian had apologised with a soft smile whilst dragging Roger onward by the arm.

"Hst, Rog, you oughtn't say things like that, come on!"

Brian of course is arrested by the question on precautions for if the ship sinks, and is not fully reassured by "there are more than enough life preservers, madam, and sixteen watertight compartments on this ship"

"'Besides, the old girl could _never_ sink'," Brian cannot help a nasally tone and a curling upper lip as he murmurs down (with a slightly mocking undertone in imitation of the White Star man) to Roger. His shorter friend guffaws and nudges Brian with an elbow.

"You cheeky bastard! And here you were assaulting me for speaking!"

"That's because _you_ were heard," Brian hisses, though his lips twitch in some mirth over his own words as well as Roger's, exhorting the other to mumble more about Brian being cheeky and how he's damned lucky that Roger got a ticket for him. And then of course they're heading on down to their berths in E Deck, having watched the upper crust long enough for Roger to comment on a couple and for Brian to decide he really ought to get his mate to their level of ship before Rog does something foolish. A lost cause to be sure, but by George he tries to instill in his fiery diminutive friend at least _some_ sense of self-preservation.

Not that Roger hasn't got one; he's actually quite adept in any discomfiting situation, but his initial instinct is to protect, to shout or be brash and respond to stress by taking care of others - often, of late, of Brian - and Brian loves him for it but is also concerned for the day Roger's attempts go wrong and someone squashes him like a bug. Literally or metaphorically; Brian is not clear on which would in fact be worse, but he tucks his clothes and other articles into the drawers that make up the underside of his bed in third class and contemplates the possibility of keeping Roger in the cabin or in bed this entire trip.

Just as a precaution to ensure he's safe.

Which Roger himself apparently gives less than two figs about because, soon's they learn a bit about their quarters and rove the ship (there is an excellent bar and floor space with ample room for music and dance, they find out first night whilst exploring) next day he's already coming in saying he's met a top-shelfer and is going to join the fellow for supper. AND he'll need to borrow one of Brian's suits in order to 'blend in' to eat up in the first class dining room. Brilliant.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello loves! This is an experimental foray and I'm working as much history into this as possible. Hope it works. My first chapter can be read as a brief follow-up to the first -and mentioning a bit from the second- chapter of quirkysubject's work :)
> 
> I hope you'll enjoy it, I am delving into deck plans and technical specs studiously
> 
> Reactions appreciated <3


	2. Chapter 2

The ship is not even three quarters full on her maiden voyage, whether because of cost or the utterly nonsensical nature of a trip taking less than a fortnight to get from the UK to New York - scandalous, unheard of! And on an unsinkable ship to boot! Of course one such person never ascribed to the "unsinkable" claim, the architect of the ship who came aboard soon as she was set to be afloat and commented upon the need for life vests and rafts as well as lifeboats. There is space enough for nearly fifty boats, and thus room for crew and passengers alike; yet White Star wants its luxury liner to be truly luxurious, and thus she needs an enormous hall, with mahogany stairs and stained glass and a _chandelier_ , by gum; not to mention pools and a Turkish Bath and a gymnasium. All aspects that could be put to use, yes, but are they necessary? Do they provide a sense of life on dry land? Can they put the passengers at ease? Possibly. Will it somehow boost morale? Absolutely, according to the blokes in charge, who'd asked their wives and friends and so on.

And so. These watertight sixteen compartments have been made ship-shape, there are postmen and surgeons and a band, as well as an entire victuals staff of the finest chefs aboard any ship. Boys and men have come raring from as far away as Ireland to join in this crew, and a good number clamour to represent Southampton on the grandest ship in the world.

Old girl has a lot to live up to. 

There's Captain Smith, age sixty-two, come out of his retirement to sail this historic voyage. He's got first through fifth officers onboard, and his chief electrician hails from the port of call. Also has got one hundred and seventy-two fireman, nearly the same amount of trimmers; six senior- and six junior-assistants to the head engineer, and fourteen electricians to boot. All of these people down below, not to mention those up on deck and elsewhere, the architect knows the names of. He knows which of them have spouses and children at home. He knows their experience and abilities, and he's glad to have this stellar crew around him on this stellar ship he's built. 

The architect knows how grand she is, and glorious, but that does not stop him from being humbled by every touch of a hat a crewman gives to him, or how many present themselves in apparent awe as they greet him. Say his name as one might speak to a lord from a bygone age - the lords and ladies now come from that money, both old and new, that pays his wages and more it pays their way for this vessel was built so grand with funds.

Yet his name, Thomas Andrews, his name is amongst those of the dreamers. Those who believe and work and do, and so it is all he can do presently not to tear up at this honour and pleasure. Not simply his duty is it to check along the ship before she makes way, and then again as she sets off and stretches her legs with all twenty-nine boilers full-steam ahead.

The engines roar as that bully band of boys work fast below to take her out of harbour and across the sea, this lovely Lady stateside bound with all sound souls aboard her.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thomas Andrews is at once a realist and a bit of a romantic, I think
> 
> *Captain Smith really was sixty-two and semi retired from his post but chose to go on this voyage.
> 
> *There were in fact postmen, a band (as people may recall vividly from the movie, I know I do!) And an entire crew of gourmet chefs, as I understand it, rather than a single ship's cook and some galley workers as less luxurious ships possessed
> 
> *There was originally space for fifty lifeboats, but the White Star manager wanted an enormous staircase for the hall along with various other amenable spaces for passengers. And so changes were made to Andrews' original architectural plan. Knowing that, and how Andrews steadfastly advocated for more precautions, pains me.
> 
> *It's said that Mr Andrews made certain to know the name of everyone working on his ship. I don't know if that's romantic license or truth, but I'll be the first to say in awe that the man had a memory like a teacher's if that was in fact the case - he held hundreds upon hundreds of names in his head! There were one thousand, three hundred sixteen passengers and eight hundred ninety-one members of the crew
> 
> I hope you're enjoying this piece thus far, more exploration of the ship will come - along with Brian
> 
> Comments appreciated <3


	3. Chapter 3

First official night on the ship after departing Queenstown and heading out across the ocean away from the Isles and the Continent, steerage has a party in what passes for their lounge or smoking room. "Bring out the Scotch and caviar, lads," - someone cheekily shouts. And without the presence of the ship's professional band, nevertheless everyone is in high spirits at the outset of this grand adventure. 

Beer is flowing because "bless it, even third class has a bar" and Roger had wheedled for Brian to bring along his violin. 

He'd gotten into playing when starting secondary school, and had the mind to play classically at Uni if he could. "Just in case, Bri, come on. You know I'll be pounding on whatever works as a drumset in order to keep time. Strike up the band!" He grins.

"Oh Rog, come, no one wants to hear me -"

Roger stops short and jabs a finger at his friend. "That's bloody bollocks, Brian May. You love music, yeah? And you're good, trust me on that. You know how many types of music I've heard whilst travelling? Loads, right, and your playing is amongst the best. Don't waste good. Besides, nobody knows you're only a clerk here. You c'n reinvent yourself as a fully-trained classical musician or summat with your skill!" 

Brian flushes bright red, ducking his face. "Come now," but because he cannot help it "d'you really think I'm good?"

Those ever-laughing blue eyes beam up at Brian, honest sincerity within, and that high sweet tone of Roger's is for once dead serious. 'Yes, Brian, I do. Wouldn't go so far as t' say brilliant, mind you; don't need m' violinist getting a swelled head." He winks yet under the hint of teasing his voice remains serious.

"... Little chance of that," Brian returns quietly, and yet he does pick up his case after Roger pointedly glowers. 

So when someone asks loudly for music after there is a good bit of milling about, a mix of English, Irish, Scottish, Turkish, French, Italian, and what-have-you voices rising through the air, Brian is ready by virtue of Rog tugging him up and saying "Me mate here knows how to fiddle," with a grin.

"Don't we all, though! Every man, laddie!" A slightly tipsy voice roars, and Brian blushes bright red, two hot strips of colour flame and stretch across his sharp cheeks. Roger nudges him, pulls up a stool and grabs an empty bucket by the bar, flips it over to brace between his knees and pound out a beat. Brian breathes and opens his case, long fingers fluttering and flying over the strings and then the bow of his violin, tightening and tweaking them before hauling himself straight upright and tucking the base of the instrument underneath his chin.

One brow cocked at an almost jaunty angle, he saws across the strings with a sharp fiddle sound, bright and quick and light. A dance step, almost a hornpipe but with his own personal touch, adding a sound almost like a trumpet with the manner in which he saws and plucks the strings, first with his bow and then his fingers. Roger whips up his head and whoops, pounding right on in time with his makeshift drum, and there are claps and tapping from folks who had just been laughing, gales of giggles now turn into dancing, whirling skirts and kicking boots and one big bloke bringing over a couple of pints along with a set of bagpipes. "Mind if I join ye?" He asks, and Roger waggles his eyebrows, having knelt forward, using his chair as a second drum as he holds up the bucket. 

Brian catches Roger's glance, the flicker of his friend's tongue, ever boisterous Rog is coming right along on this whirligig ride with him, and Bri feels lighter already. He smiles, teeth catching on his lower lip as he gestures to the man. "Of course, come on," he says and with a puff of air to inflate the pipes, the man's ruddy face grows rounder both with air and with enjoyment as he stands between them and layers the sounds of Scotland amongst Brian's violin notes and Roger's drumbeats.

Eventually a break for a slower dance has Brian sitting with a pint and Roger finding a girl - different from the sort he usually meets, this wee one has long dark curls and barely comes past his knees. She's less than ten years of age, probably closer to six, and got herself introduced to Roger for a dance.

He shakes her hand so seriously before he bows and beams and Brian watches as Roger whirls about the floor with his new friend. His dancing is sharp and jerky, almost as if he's got two left feet, but his little partner doesn't seem to mind; on the contrary, her bright giggles light the air around her, and Roger's face is softer than Brian has seen it as he scoops her up and spins with her. 

The brightness of this room, this place, the power of this ship and of its journey across the sea; all seems to coalesce for a shining moment here in third class, and Brian has a sense of steadiness he wasn't sure that he could feel. He is quite glad he feels it here. 

Mayhap there is something to Roger's talk of this voyage begetting new beginnings, after all.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> *The little girl Roger meets and dances with is Cora Cartmell (a la Jack in the 1997 film). His dancing is sharp and jerky because as is evidenced by the music video for 'Man on Fire' our dear Rogah Taylah ...well, Disco Deacy he is not, I will just say that ;P
> 
> *Brian makes the violin sound like a trumpet, a little homage to what he did with his guitar in the song 'Sleeping on the Sidewalk' from the 1977 Queen album News of the World
> 
> *Brian began playing in secondary school, a nod to the fact that in life he and his father built his guitar when Brian was fourteen
> 
> *It was after 12:30 pm on April 11th when the Titanic began her crossing to America after stopping for fuel and passengers
> 
> *What passed for a smoking room, the lower classes did not have elegant dining rooms or smoking areas for their passengers, and so had to make do
> 
> *There was a professional band that played on the upper class deck for passengers.
> 
> I figure the lower decks had their own group of 'amateur' musicians (like Brian and Roger, who are of as just as swell a caliber as those classically trained)
> 
> Roger is Brian's cheering section, honestly. Love their friendship :)
> 
> Comments appreciated <3


	4. Chapter 4

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Roger talks to Brian
> 
> Warning for oblique references to suicidal thoughts and a possible attempt to end one's life
> 
> This corresponds somewhat to the second chapter of "To Tell You When I Find You" by quirkysubject

Next night is certain to be different.

For one thing, Roger returns to their room incredibly late, or early in the morning, rather, after the first. He had taken some time at the end of the night to go out for a smoke. Brian had not joined because he despises smoking with a passion, even the smell of it is enough to make him feel rather ill. And his playing had worn him out a bit besides, as he'd been asked for jig after jig after jig. He'd learnt incredibly interesting tunes from a couple of passengers who'd spoken very little English but made up for it with an energy and tonal ability that prepared an excellent chord progression for Brian. He'd been itching to get back and write things down, yet had also been having food and beverages pressed into his hands in thanks for starting up the music, and so it is close to, probably after midnight when he at last manages to claim exhaustion and politely excuse himself to return to his berth. After promising to play again the next night, of course.

It is so lovely to be appreciated for his music, and Brian stays up writing down ideas in the sketchbook Roger had given him, a twin to Roger's own. "Know you never stop writing," he'd said before they embarked, pressing the leather bound tome into Brian's hands. "Don't go on about this, I've got one too." Brian proceeded to get a trifle misty-eyed but true to his word (well, to Roger's request) said nothing but thanks. He scrawls down much on the pages this night and goes to sleep with the book next to his head.

Yet he is not fully unconscious when Roger returns, as before him came their two cabin mates, a pair of downright enormous Swedes who shuffled about with grunts and gripes about berth size before falling asleep and snoring loud enough to shake the cabin. Besides Brian does not get to sleep straightaway at the best of times, his mind often refuses to rest, so he hears the door creak as Rog shuffles in and strips off boots and coat and trousers, rumpling up his hair and retrieving his nightshift - or rather, taking off most of everything because somewhere (perhaps in all of his extensive travelling) Roger had come across the notion of sleeping in pants alone. He's about to clamber up to his berth above Brian's, it would seem, when a spark of light from the hall before he closes the door catches a sparkle that is his friend's open eye. "...Bri," he whispers, ducking his head under the heavy wood above Brian's bed and peering closely at him. "Oi, Brian. You awake?"

Brian shifts and groans, arm falling across his forehead and eyes half-closed. "No, Rog," he deadpans, grouchy as in fact he'd nearly just drifted off, or been about to. Yet he asks "what is it?" Because something in the demeanor of his mate suggests... He isn't sure, but something lurks in his best friend's expressive eyes. Almost a darkness.

Roger licks his lips and then bounces into Brian's bed, coming close to whisper about how he had apparently saved a top-shelfer from falling off the ship and has been invited to dine with him next day. "Todger was hanging over the gunwale, an' flung himself - oh, and you should've seen the bastard who came up after, Brian; American money, guess he has, and was flaunting himself about while his brother-in-law was out hanging off the side of the ship, poor sod." Roger's tone grows gentle now, and even in the darkness Brian sees evidence of that sprightly loving spirit that Roger possesses underneath his fiery acerbity. He says nothing, though, only listens as his friend describes this bloke: "He was thin, this lad, broad shoulders, soft hair swinging out into the moonlight. Looked like some sort of fairy king, at first. And then, and then he -" Roger swallows, his expression changes and darkens as he gazes at Brian. 

Abruptly Roger's arms are around his friend and his face is buried in Brian's chest as the taller sucks in air, registering as to what Roger is insinuating with a shock of empathetic sorrow. "Rogie, you stopped him from - you saved his life, then." 

Roger shudders a bit, still buried in Brian's torso and shirtfront. "Yeah," he croaks out before clearing his throat. "Lucky I was there. Like I - like I'm gonna be for you, you know that." Brian goes still as he'd been running his hands over Roger's back in automatic attempt to comfort. Roger shifts back to hold onto Brian's shoulders. "You do know that, yeah? I know you've felt pretty shit recently, Bri. With Chrissie, and not going to uni and everything. And I know I said you shouldn't bloody harp on it and therefore I don't fucking need to, but I know things 've been hard, and for what it's worth, I'm sorry." Roger bites his full lower lip and runs one hand up and down Brian's arm as the other blinks, sucks in a shuddering breath.

"Rog, you - there's no, no reason for you to be sorry." He sniffles, tears filling and dripping from his eyes, onto his lashes and his cheeks. "This is - all on me. It's incumbent upon me to -"

"...Live your life happily, or happier, now." Roger shakes his head sharply. "But Brian, I'm just saying. Tonight, I really saw how tough things can get. For anybody. And I don't want you to get there, mate. I can't - I won't let that happen to you." He shakes Brian's shoulders then, sharply, and Bri is struck anew by Roger's strength and loyalty. "Alright? Now, we're playing again tomorrow, I hear," a slow smile brightens his delicate features as he scrunches his nose in the beginnings of a yawn. "We c'n talk about what to play, an' I can tell you plenty more about the toffs, but right now I'm knackered."

Brian's eyes widen and he snorts, teardrops collecting on his lashes as a last couple drip down. "You're knackered? Really?" He hisses instantly. "I seem to recall you waking ME up." His voice is loud enough that one of their roommates snorts and the both of them freeze til he rolls over.

"Oh sod it, you weren't asleep," Roger grumbles, trying not to giggle as he shoves Brian's lean chest lightly before running his hand through his friend's dark curls. Bri resists the intense urge to smooth his hair down immediately after that, sighing. He reaches out and takes hold of Roger's shoulder instead. 

"Thank you, Roger," he speaks far more quietly now, serious again. "For that, for...so many things." Taking care of him, for one, though Brian is certain this first class gentleman will also be grateful to Roger for his aid, if not instantly, at least soon. 

Roger looks at Brian now, his rumpled hair and open shirt and those tired limpid enormous eyes that get so sappy with all of Bri's emotions, not to mention the tear tracks on his cheeks, and he claps his mate on the shoulder before wrapping his arms around him again. This time it is Brian who presses himself into Roger's chest. "A' course, Bri," he speaks as if there has never been a question about whether or not he would be here for Brian. That he would do anything he could. That is sure soon as Roger speaks next, high husk certain and gentle upon the words "You're my brother. Sweet dreams, yeah?" He claps Brian on the back and withdraws now to climb up into his own bed, speaking as though he'd said nothing more earth-shattering than a truism like _'the sky is blue'_ or _'we're sailing to America across the sea on this enormous steamship'_.

A claim without any dispute possible, and one that warms Brian's heart and makes him happy to his very core, soothing his restless head better even than sleep could do. He nestles down amongst his blankets, bending his legs as best as he can in order to fit at least somewhat comfortably into his berth. Swallows down a lump in his throat.

"G' night, Rogie. Sweet dreams to you."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> *Brian suffers from depression in life and has been in some dark places. I can only imagine what Roger would say to him, but I have no doubt he has been there for Brian in such tough times.
> 
> *Brian refers to Roger as Rogie and calls them brothers, and Roger has said that of Brian as well, so I felt I should include those things.
> 
> I changed a bit of the occurrence to have Brian awake because he has also said he sometimes cannot sleep, and I have a feeling first official night on a ship crossing the Atlantic, well, may be even harder to get one's rest
> 
> *There were passengers on the Titanic from as far-flung places as Turkey, Mexico, and Uruguay and I have a few of them talking to Brian about music
> 
> Hope you're liking this, comments appreciated <3


	5. Chapter 5

Next night, after the day is spent with Brian attempting valiantly (and with some, read, much chagrin) to assist Roger in altering one of Brian's suits so that he may be able to pass for slightly upper-class when he is asked to go and meet the gentleman he'd saved "name's Frederick Bul - Bulsara," Roger tumbles out the surname to Brian, muttering that he hasn't a clue where it's from, even as he mentions a bloke he had known in France with a similar look to this man's. "... Maybe he's Indian? I ought to ask."

Brian, mouth full of the few fasteners he could find to help him keep his trousers the proper length on Roger's legs "- Please don't, Rog," he says, blinking slowly in horror at the thought. "There are so many ways you might blunder by with first class, but that, I really don't think there's a way it wouldn't be rude."

Roger snorts. "Can't ask a bloke where his family's from? Funny old world," he grumbles, adding a couple of choice words for good measure. "Come off it, Brian, they aren't any better or worse than us just because they have money, you know."

Brian winces now. "Certainly wouldn't say that to someone such as Mr. Astor," he stands and brushes out Roger's coat before folding up the sleeves a proper amount. "I hear he's the richest man on board ship."

Roger scoffs. "You think I'm going to have a bloody chat with him?"

Brian sighs. "Roger. The wealthy sort make small talk. They aren't about to say they hope the weather holds because the boilers can't take a consistent pounding from the sea, or tell you how much coal has to be trimmed for steam. And I doubt they're going to discuss the wiles of French women with you either."

"So I'll talk about stars, or poetry, or clothes or some such, Bri," his friend shrugs, so easily as if none of this matters to him, as if he could never be - or even THINK of being - embarrassed by saying the absolute wrongest possible thing to the wrong person; he simply slips into the jacket and pulls up trousers that are tight enough to hug every line of his legs. Shapely, _too_ shapely, oh, sod it. "C'n just pretend I'm talking to you!"

Brian closes his eyes in horror. "Please don't, Roger, I shudder to think what folk will say to you if you're abominably cheeky to them. And oh, no, this doesn't work, it -"

"I look fine, Brian," Roger turns around as Bri had been preparing to throw up his hands in despair over the suit. "As good as I ever could be. Downright smashing." He winks. "Think there ought to be a fashion for tighter trousers, actually. Then I could get myself some high-waisted riding trousers like my grandda -"

"Stop it, Rog, this is serious. They'll - I don't want anyone making fun of you." Brian intends to grasp his shorter friend's shoulders, but stops himself so as not to wrinkle Roger's sleeves. He bites his lip, mind spinning with high anxiety. He's been in situations to hear what some of the upper crust folk say, and though there are always decent folks, the tendency of the elite to speak with veiled sorts of snobbery is something that, as well as he knows Roger, Brian worries about the other's response to. "Just don't tell anyone to sod off," Brian begs.

Roger's smile dies. Brian is serious. He's already done a good turn for Rog by lending this suit with as little fuss as Roger is likely to get ("Please try not to split any seams or spill on it," Bri had pleaded soon as Roger pulled his billowing white shirt on. "This is me best suit.") And now he's worried; perhaps Roger ought not have mentioned the suspicion he had that Bulsara's brother in law had invited him up to dine as some wanking joke, a way to take the piss out of the third-classer. "All right, Bri," Roger straightens his posture and looks as serious as he can. "I promise I won't talk shite to anyone. And I'll keep your suit safe, okay?" He smooths the shirt down over his soft belly, winking as he's kept it unbuttoned one lower than is strictly proper - which Brian can tell and does not say a thing because he has a tendency to do so as well - and twirling about in a circle with a pert little hop, he asks "How do I look?"

"...Like you're playing dress-up in my suit," Brian groans, but on closer inspection he has to admit that Roger can pull this off if anyone can. He swoops up his cap and cocks it, the sewn bits coming to gather under its button on top. It somehow sets him off. If not precisely well, then, at least Rog has the charisma to pull off such an ensemble; Brian knows he never could, even if the suit is made for him. As soon as he stepped into anyplace remotely close to first class, his awkward nature and lanky build would give him away before he even started speaking. "Don't slouch," Brian advises "and you'll be alright."

Roger grins at him. "I'll be dooooing alright first out on the promenade, Brian!" He snatches up his overcoat and whirls it round his shoulders like a cape, all dramatics. "I've been asked to meet and walk with Mr Frederick Bulsara on deck before dinner."

The colour drains from Brian's face at that. "You _what?_ "

***

"His name's Farrokh, he goes by Freddie, and he's a genius!" 

Brian, head bowed over the music he'd started writing based on one of the tunes sung for him the previous night, lifts his face out of his hand, eyes wide and hair dishevelled as Roger bursts back into the room crowing about how he'd met with Freddie, and his sister, whose name is Kash - Kashmira - "and she's a right hand with a needle and thread and pins, ey, did me up in one of Freddie's suits so I won't have to dirty yours!" He still wears Brian's suit currently, holding what his friend now recognises as a garment bag that Roger puts carefully down. "You'll just have to help me with collar and things, they both folded it up all for me and tied everything. Tried to watch and listen but you know my eyesight's shit and really they were both talking in sodding fashion terms and I hadn't the foggiest - Brian," Roger stops himself in the middle of his words, for breath, it seems, but also "...Have you been sitting at this miniscule desk all day?!"

Brian blinks. He heard and saw the Swedes go out, one of them nodded to him and he'd made a mental note to learn a bit of Swedish so as to say an actual hullo, but after he and Rog had their porridge and he'd helped put his friend up in the suit "Yes," he says slowly, still getting over the fact his wardrobe wasn't grand enough even at first look so the top-shelfers had done up a whole hand-me-down for Roger. "Why, is that a problem? I wanted to check on the suit, and since you're back and don't need it, now I know it's useless, so." He hates speaking like this, sounding like a wounded, petulant child. Of _course_ the toffs could do one better, at least Roger won't be laughed at during supper now for his attire. Meanwhile...

Roger, who'd begun unbuttoning and undoing Brian's suit to hang back up for him, freezes. "Ah, mate." He drops himself to Brian's side, tenderly running a hand through Brian's unruly curls. Shakes his head in fondness. "You're top for even letting me use your suit, Bri. And I fought to keep wearing it, I mean I think it's the peak of bloody fashion, works for you with your fancy lapels and long legs." Brian feels his lips twitch as he looks down at the desk. "I really appreciate the lend, mate. They just got all excited dolling me up. You should've seen it, would've laughed your arse off for sure." In naught but trousers now, Roger stands behind Brian and wraps his arms around, resting his chin in his friend's soft hair. "And I really still need your help and knowledge, mate, to put this blooming thing on." He gestures back at the newly-lent suit. "Whaddya say, Bri? Willya help, pleeeease?" Roger begs, eyes sparkling as he shifts to try and catch the other's eyes. "I'll get down on my knees, really, I'll do it."

"No, no, please don't, you'll get a spot on the suit!"

Roger beams in self-satisfaction as Brian rears up, waving his arms at that. "There he is."

"I hate you," Brian groans.

"Ah c'mon mate, no you don't. You love me."

"You're infuriating, you are," Brian sighs heavily.

"And yet you still love me! C'mon, I know it's the truth, you have to say it, Bri." He's now taking down the trousers of Brian's suit in preparation to put on the other one.

"Get off my fucking trousers - alright, all right, you absolutely infuriating rotter, I do love you! Now will you stop faffing about and come over here so I can get this suit on?" 

Roger, beaming again, or rather he hadn't stopped - now ceases his spinning and gyrating round to come close and stand as Brian's nimble fingers pull on his shirt and begin to do the complicated cravat knot at his neck. "Long as you promise to actually leave this room before the party this evening," he counters. "I don't want to spend all my time on this ship out having fun while you're sitting in here moaning over music. At least get out and do that on the deck!"

"Roger, hold still," he's wiggling about in all his demands that Brian should leave, and looking at his mate pointedly whilst wriggling himself into the trousers, hooking them up proper before waiting stolidly for Brian's answer.

The other pinches the knobbly bridge of his nose with thumb and forefinger, shaking his head. "... Right, fine then," he says at last.

Roger bares his teeth in a grin. "Excellent. Now gimme that bloody jar of hair oil. We both of us have some serious work to get on in that department."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This takes place during chapter 3 and just before chapter 4 of "To Tell You When I Find You" by quirkysubject :)
> 
> I tried (and failed) not to imagine the suit that Freddie and Kash tailor to fit Roger -haha- as a turquoise blue like the Caribbean Sea, despite the fact that suits then were typically charcoal grey or black or whatnot. But Rog is just so flashy and fabulous that I can't help it!
> 
> I love the idea of him taking turns smoothing his and Brian's hair down with oil. 
> 
> *There's a bit of video, from 1979 I think, where Brian tells someone to get off his fucking trousers and I had that in mind when he became irked at Roger here
> 
> Next chapter should be the start of second night of music and we shall meet some important folks...
> 
> Comments appreciated <3


	6. Chapter 6

Brian does take Roger's words of advice, such as they were. He brings his notebook and his violin out on deck and gets a bit of sun himself before supper and watches sailors going to and from their duties. That's what he imagines must be the case, at least. Sees a man in thick trousers and bracers with what appears to be a pair of boots in his arms, along with a canvas cover that seems to possess black soot upon, as he strolls underneath a bit of rigging - or what passes for it on a steamship. A gleaming silver ladder stretches up to the lookout post long away above the deck. 

"Oi Fleet, what's going up there?" He calls to another man, wearing dark blues and a snug cap, who peers downward as he ascends the ladder and yells back

"Same bloody thing as I say t' you every time, Barrett, my arse!" 

"Nice sight out o'er the ocean, eh?"

"An' oughta stay thataway - want to bet on it, fellows?" 

The good-natured banter elicits guffaws and whistles from others on deck, including several walking with Barrett until Fifth Officer Lowe marches smartly along and barks for them to get on shift or back to work.

Brian stays out on deck until the sun goes down and he recalls the supper times in third-tier mess. He wonders how Roger is up in first class, and wonders whether he'll be down at any time before ten. Surely top-shelfer supper doesn't last that long, though Brian knows there are smoking rooms and spots for gameplay, bridge and suchlike. His stomach churns at the mere thought of the smoke hanging in a cloud over plush chairs and tables, men sipping brandy or scotch or wine, cigarettes cocked between two fingers, hob-nobbing about stocks and bonds or politics. He imagines Roger speaking brightly about clothes he likes or travels or music; hears the peals of laughter in his head as Rog regaled folk last night with every anecdote about the seamy streets of France, the buskers and the brothels. So much of life and light existed in the alleyways of Paris, in the streets south of Pont Nuf, such Rog said; and the French in third class agreed. 

But nothing of that is known on the upper deck, only museums and parks and proper etiquette; phrases learned in a book, as Brian himself had learned, not whispered lovingly between friends or lovers; and nor are there the words of love spake back to one's family, the ones that tear the heart and crush the soul not to gain reply: _every night I see the moon and not you, be not gone, please think of me. Time is but a paper moon. Let us cling together oh my love, my love._

Brian finds himself barrelling almost blindly as he passes something that bears a plaque, a sort of suite he does not see the full name of. His eyesight is ablur now with tears. There is a consistent beeping noise he hears, intermixed with tapping sounds he finds to be strange. They are not something he can instantly place until he hears "I'm off to mess a moment, Jack. You need anything?"

"Pasty if they got, thanks Harry," and of a sudden an opening door precedes the egress of a boy, sallow faced, thin. His hair is dark and cut high and tight, eyes large and dark as well. Observant, they flicker about the hall and back into the room from whence he comes, wherein the sound still emanates. Brian spies a mechanism, affixed to the wall, a man in front with bowed head and notation, jotting down something as he wears a set of muffs over his ears.

"Oh!" Brian sniffs and swipes at his eyes, standing straight and feeling as though he has blundered into the wrong place. "Please forgive the intrusion, I'm so sorry," he says.

The boy, Harry as he'd been called, puts a finger to his lips and closes the door up, beckoning to Brian before speaking slightly soft "No worries, old boy. You just found th' haven of us lowly radio operators. You lost?"

"I, erm. Well in truth I was actually headed down to mess," Brian responds, ducking his head a bit in thanks though still contrite. Lost in his head, he'd been, as always. _Get your head out of the clouds, boy!_ he hears his father's sharp voice say. Brian blinks hard and shakes his head to clear it. "But, yes, seem to have lost me way."

The other's eyes narrow just a trifle as he glances at Brian's clothes - crisp collared shirt, pressed black slacks - as well as the instrument case over his shoulder. "Sure you don't mean to go up on deck rather than the mess hall?" He asks, nodding at Bri's back. "Got your instrument, surely the band misses you."

The band. "Oh, no, I'm - not part of the official erm, deck band or anything, I'm from third class. My name is Brian," he bumbles out and feels right foolish. "I'm Brian May. And you're - Harry?"

"Harold, actually," the boy nods and offers his hand to Brian with a smile, the tips of his fingers calloused, his handshake firm. "Harold Bride, junior radio officer. Harry's m' nickname. I can show your way to the mess hall, Mr May. If you'll follow me." He seems to snap into a sort of service mode, turns on his heel and heads right down a hallway after relinquishing Brian's hand and beckoning. "That's the Marconi Suite," he says, "where me and Jack are. If you need anything to go out on th' wireless, that's where we send and receive communications on this ship." He swings along a passage with rails, downward slope to stairs, a gate heading downwards that he opens.

"Oh, well, it's a pleasure, Harold," Brian's head feels like it's spinning. "Though you don't have to take me, erm. I could have surely headed down -"

"- Back the way you came?" Harold calls back, holding the door for Brian. "Nah old chap, that'd take ages, you'd need to head up and back around the promenade outdoors to reach straightforward stairs. This way is easy, we c'n go down through a hatch. Besides," with a bounce, light on his feet, the slim young man adds "Even if you aren't in the official band, boys downstairs deserve to hear some music too, hey?"

Brian's chest warms as he nods enthusiastically, pleased by the sound of Harold's voice, his appreciation, though the young man surely doesn't see. "Yes, boys and girls alike," he speaks feelingly. Them, and everyone. "That's what me and my best mate Rog are aiming to give them - enjoyment, such as we can. And erm, anyone in the crew who cares to come and listen," he adds on. "Including yourself."

"Cheers," Harold says, clambering out into another hallway and leading Brian down. "I've got to get back up to assist Jack, but might could swing by. Where do you play?"

"Common area, E Deck," is the answer just as Brian hears the swell of conversation and utensils clanking from the mess hall. The crease between his brows eases and his shoulders fall, as he hadn't realised he had been clenching them before. "Oh, thank you," he says as Harold bows him in with a smile. "Junior Radio Officer, erm." Brian shuffles his feet and smooths his hair. "Sorry, I'm not sure how else to refer to you."

Harold's eyes brighten as his lips twitch with another smile, and Brian is struck by how young he looks, and must be. "That's fine, though as you heard, I'm also Harry." With a pat on Brian's arm, he adds "So you need anything in the radio room, you ask for Operator Harry by name. They'll find me. Now." He claps and rubs his hands together. "...Where might one manage to find a meat pasty in such a mess hall?"

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> And so we have been introduced to:
> 
> *Harold Bride, junior radio operator, age 22 years  
> *Jack Phillips, by voice and the sight of his back, senior radio operator, age 24 years  
> *Frederick Fleet, the ship's lookout  
> *Fred Barrett, leading fireman  
> *Fifth Officer Harold Lowe has also been named
> 
> And Brian has been given a bit of an alternative tour of some of the ship's hallways.
> 
> Next it is on to music!
> 
> Comments appreciated <3


	7. Chapter 7

Brian ends up settled in a far corner of the mess hall, trying to prepare himself for the second night of revelry. 

People from the night before have come up to him, including the little group from Uruguay that he had ended the evening chatting to. They talk animatedly in broken English, which means a few words and a lot of miming. Fingers flowing over imaginary strings - and real ones, as one of the trio beams and shows Brian a guitar, polished wood with carved holes showing flowers and vines, a rich patina of golden colour that stands starkly, lovely in contrast to the darker rich red-brown varnish upon the surface of his own violin. "Ah, la voluntad, usted, erm. Your, ah, guitar? El guitar, la guitar -" Brian lifts his hands and flutters his fingers, pointing at the guitarist and then waving one hand as if beckoning, to ask if they might play together. 

The guitarist draws back, shrugs and tries to smile but on his face is writ confusion. One of his companions nods along to what Brian is attempting to convey, and then the third snaps fingers loudly. "Ay! ¿Tocarás tu guitarra conmigo, entonces?" Is asked, and the guitarist stops and stares wide eyed from his friend to Brian. 

"You...want play with?" He asks in a heavy voice, accent so thick yet highly musical, and Brian nods rapidly, grateful to be understood.

"Yes, yes, si!" He smiles. "We can sing too, if you like. Err - cantar juntos. I'm not the best singer by any means," Brian hastens to add. 

There's a bit of murmuring in a mix of Spanish and Portuguese that translates eventually into something along the lines of: "we are not wanting to step on senor's toes but can surely sing backup if needed."

"Wonderful! Muchas gracias," Brian says, thanking his lucky stars that he'd recalled some Spanish from secondary school. And of course he is certain Roger will know even more, as he's definitely been to Spain on one of his excursions. 

He goes with Harold to find food, or rather the crewman is ushered in by some boisterous Irish lads and lasses once he makes it known he's looking for meat pies, and Brian secures something that could pass for vegetables, perhaps. He continues to glance towards the door, wondering when to start heading over to the common area, and whether or not he ought to honestly expect Roger's arrival. On time, at least.

Brian is given his answer when a roar overtakes the crowd and victuals crew begin shooing them out with the last of the supper. "Git yer beer and geddoutta 'ere!" There's a shove off and some obscene gestures in response to that, but those are quelled by the choice to head on down farther to E Deck and open up the bar. Brian beckons to his new background singers and guitar player, and they beam and follow as he is swept along to scramble eventually onto the makeshift stage from the night before.

"'Bout bloody time you got here," a high voice murmurs in his ear, and he nearly falls offstage as Roger, cackling at the shock, crouches where he'd snuck up behind Brian with a wicked grin.

"Oh, bloody hell, you made it!" Gasps Brian, sure sign of his relief and previous distress, as he ordinarily doesn't swear. "Wait, what about your upper class friend?" Roger's eyes twinkle with mischief, and Brian is instantly on alert. "Roger, what did you do?"

Shrugging as though the idea was one offhand "I wrote him a note. Said he ought to come down to E Deck at eleven o'clock for a real party so we could make it count." Brian's eyes narrow in confusion and Roger waves him off. "Eh, just something that was said at supper. But what's this? I see you've found a band," he gestures to the folks from Uruguay, who've backed up a bit, eyes lowered so as to be respectful. "You already working to replace me, Bri?"

"Non!" A Frenchman shouts. "Vive la musique!" 

And Brian fumbles all over himself to explain this was an option because he'd been working up some song ideas, "and this one bloke plays guitar. I thought we ...might could sing together as a last resort, y'know. If you didn't end up making it down from first class." Roger stares hard at him and Brian feels himself begin to tremble. What if he's actually miffed? 

But with a bright laugh and a slap on the shoulder, Roger cries "Ah yeah, th' more the merrier! Arriba riba riba!" His high rough tone trills with perfectly rolled 'r's and smiles split faces. "Music is music, right? Let's go!" Roger grabs his drums and Brian starts a folk tune, the three others clapping along and then layering their voices in three-part harmony, oohing along to the song. 

Yells and cheers go up, and everyone is dancing even more quickly on this night than the last. Brian shakes stinging sweat out of his eyes to see a dark-haired lithe figure come in a bit late, moving carefully amongst those dancing or swaying or standing and clapping whilst certain groups drink. He moves with a grace that is eye-catching, and Brian's eyes flicker to Roger, who spots the newcomer and _winks_ at him. 

A flashing grin beams back, lips stretching over such an infectious smile, interesting set of teeth and such pure excitement in the face that Brian wishes he could capture it. He nearly ceases playing in surprise. This must be Roger's new friend, and Brian is right flabbergasted that he came down. Perhaps the rich aren't mostly stuck up snobs after all.

***

Certainly not this one; Brian and his little trio begin a song they had hummed to him yesterday, one from their country, as Roger hops off his stool to get drinks for himself and Freddie, Brian remembers his name. Rog ends up dancing with Cora again, the little girl from last night; and she dances with Freddie too, practically dragging him out onto the floor. Bri softens as he watches this young man slowly lose stiffness; his luxurious coat is gone, unbuttoned and shrugged off his shoulders to be chucked across the room and caught by Roger, who hasn't stopped beaming. The toff fellow's starched shirt isn't made for rolling up sleeves, but he does his best, and the billowing white is a stark contrast to the lovely warm shade of his skin, almost the colour of the guitar that is playing. It's a lovely time they are having, and Brian feels his earlier melancholy slipping far away, the tears he'd shed all but forgotten.

Eventually though, the joy is no longer lasting; one of the Swedes - Brian now wishes desperately that he knew enough of their language to speak as he had tried with Spanish - has put down a ridiculous drink in front of the first class boy and demanded he square up. Thank goodness Rog has practised hands, but other games are not so harmless.

A few of the engineers and coal trimmers, Harold must've spread the word to the crew so those off-shift could come, are pontificating about the hardy nature of a ship's crew and her poorer passengers versus the softness of the upper crust.

And Freddie, in a bombastic sort of way that had come out, manifested itself more and more as the night wore on, or so Brian has seen; well, he clearly cannot back down from a challenge.

"He's bloody insane," Roger hisses as Brian, taking a break from his fiddle, comes up and puts a hand on his mate's shoulder. "Lookit, he's gotten squared up to throw hands with the biggest bloke in here. Do something, Brian, with that big brain of yours!"

Those cornflower blue eyes are blazing and begging at once, and Brian's mind whirls and churns till he's got "Oi, least let the man fight someone his own size!" 

"Yeah? Who'll that be?"

Several suggestions are thrown out, like a broomstick or one man's wife, until a wiry young fellow from the same knot of crew steps forward. He wears the uniform of engineering. Looks like he's got grease or coal on his knuckles, and seems sharp, focused. Pale skin, with a round-tipped nose and stormy green-grey eyes. Years younger than the toff, perhaps, by the looks of it. And Brian worries that he's made this whole situation worse.

It turns into a boxing match, almost like in a ring, with people calling scores as the two circle each other. Roger had blown a gasket at the start, shouting that he ought to drag Freddie off himself for being a bloody idiot, but then the fighting began anyhow. Everyone has something to prove... How medieval Brian finds this whole thing, and wishes fervently that he hadn't tried to intervene. Particularly when little Cora runs in, causing a distraction that then sends the engineering lad down onto the floor, gasping and writhing in pain from a liver shot. 

Brian doesn't think; his ears are roaring as his heart goes out to the boy in pain, and he's left his fiddle and companions onstage to go over, practically running and shoving through the crowd. He crouches, offering a hand to help the other up. "Are you all right?" His wide horrified eyes precede an immediate "No, 'course not, that was stupid of me to say. What I mean is, can I help you at all? You did an, er. Right smashing job out there." Brian winces at his choice of words as he ducks his head and flushes. Curls fall over his forehead and in frustration he swipes them back - they just refuse to stay down!

The sight of this gangly bumbling sweet-voiced man saying he had been smashing when legitimately falling in a boxing match, well it causes the young engineer to giggle. Before he winces in an immediate flaring of agony after. "So - did you," he manages to nod over at the makeshift stage, where all abandoned are drums and the guitar long since. "I mean, without a full rhythm section the entire time, y'know. Did pretty well."

An already arched eyebrow arches higher as the long hand still held out to him shifts a little. "Pretty well, eh? D'you know a way we could be better?" 

There is almost a challenge in the voice, though tone remains gentle and he is still crouching to help the other man up, after all. 

The young engineer shifts and groans before responding quietly as he takes the taller man's hand and allows himself to be helped rise. He stretches, winces, and rubs a hand over his middling-length chestnut brown hair before smacking his lips and flicking his eyes up to Brian's. 

"Okay, well. You could use a bassist, for starters."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter takes place during the span of time of chapters 4, 5, and 6 from quirkysubject :)
> 
> *Brian's violin being varnished red-brown, as well as being a more typical colour of violins, is a nod to the distinctive look of his Red Special
> 
> I am going to think a little more on just why this young engineer felt he needed to step up to the plate to box a top-shelfer, but for now Brian is attempting to speak Spanish and spread joy through music.... And yet even so a fight erupted from the inside.
> 
> I hope anyone who actually speaks Spanish will forgive my attempts to incorporate it, as I took it through primary school and that is all. And I'm certain my French is just as abysmal
> 
> But behold, we have all the boys together! (Because yes, the wiry young engineer is our Deacy)
> 
> *John's comments about needing bass come from the fact that he apparently heard Queen play in 1970 and wasn't too impressed due to the fact they didn't have a decent bassist
> 
> Comments appreciated <3


	8. Chapter 8

Brian, who, up til now has been solely feeling awful for this man in pain - and feeling guilt as he had been the one whose words sent this fellow into the fight in the first place - still feels that twinge of sympathy as the engineer rises and automatically helps him to a bench near the stage, which had been vacated as had many of the seats in the place during the course of the fight. 

But Brian also feels somewhat protective over his - even slapdash as they are - band, as the trio and Roger had all worked their arses off. Not to mention the piper yesternight. "Well it's a good bunch, specifically with me mate Roger on the drums. He's a stellar hand at keeping time. You've seen him, hanging round with the, erm, gentleman you fought." The other's brows rise as Brian indicates Roger, and a second later bright blue eyes under dark-gold hair showcase an expression that clearly telegraphs Roger would be fine with having a go at boxing round two. But then Brian steps into the other's line of sight, wilting a bit as he adds "I know I haven't got the most polished playing, meself. Was meant to go to school for it. Or rather, wanted to." Oh, how he had wanted, but particularly when his father heard there was a direct and instant veto of that choice. Brian presses his lips together, eyes shining with regretful embarrassment as he rubs long fingers over the back of his neck, swiping down at his hair again, ruddy curls. "So I'm the least technically talented member here. We've got a guitar, and bagpipes - the latter which was last night, but may be back" he hopes, anyhow. "And perhaps we can add something like a pennywhistle or, anything more."

Blinking, an incredulous smile rises to the engineer's countenance as his eyes crinkle at the outer edges, and then he grows serious. Every emotion is evident upon his open face, it's quite an expressive one. "What, whoah no, your sound was alright. More than alright. I mean, I did say you were smashing, didn't I?"

The tall fellow blinks and and inclines his head in a nod. "Yes you did."

"Okay then, erm. That wasn't a dig, mate. Honest. I really do think you're good. You're all good." Still wincing a bit, the man, still a boy, really by the looks of him - Brian should never have suggested the fight - leans to one side to alleviate pain, and Brian's mind is caught, tugged out of darkness as he speaks again. "Erm, I just, I can join if you'd like. I play bass as a - well, a bit of a lark, y'know. Also guitar, for fun, and I think it'd be fun to join. Like I said, you lot are good. And I, erm. If you wanted a bit of a break but need someone to keep playing..." His voice falters a wee bit at the last, the particular lilt of it that Brian noticed lowers and a seemingly awkward chuckle ensues. He seems so unsure, this boy, but kind to offer his playing. Brian checks on the others who - apart from Roger, which is a surprise - all seem interested in having more than a bit of beer.

So he smiles a little, putting out his hand. "Alright then. It's the least I can do. I'm Brian," he adds as though only now recalling the necessity of introductions. "Brian H. May."

"My name's John. John Richard Deacon." He takes the offered hand and shakes it, feels the elegance and strength of thin fingers, and then he's sitting on a stool on the stage, Brian speaks softly to another man and a guitar is being pressed into his hands. 

"Lovely to meet you, John," Brian's voice is measured but there's a hint of mirth there as he smiles, long teeth catching on the flesh of his lower lip. "Let's see what you've got." He picks up his fiddle and starts a high trill, forehead creased the littlest bit as his pale skin shines from the open strip of his white shirt, unbuttoned partway due to the heat and closeness of the room for sure. John's head cocks as he focuses on listening and plucking chords on the borrowed guitar rather than on watching Brian or the crowd that seems to be getting restless. Should've had a thought for bringing his own, but this one is quite nice. He nods to its owner as the man lifts a cup to him, watching the meticulous careful way the young man tunes the instrument whilst playing, beginning a low thrumming riff, a basslike progression that the fiddle notes dance around.

Brian taps out the rhythm with one foot as John's fingers fret four of the six guitar strings madly, creating a bass by doing so. The tall man smiles again, bending with his violin and following John's work as much as leading it. John smiles back now, and his shoulders do not feel so tense. He's forgotten the pain in his side as people are cheering and clapping before they start to dance - John catches sight of the blond, Roger, whose soft features are no longer pinched in discontent. Instead he appears focused on getting the toffer John fought with to dance. Said fellow looks a bit less bloodied in the face now, though a bruise is rising on one long cheek, and John cannot keep a tiny smirk of satisfaction from rising to his lips unbidden. It had been a good fight, save for the end, but he now wonders how it even got started. How had Roger, who by the looks, is from same class as Brian - ever gotten close enough to a top-shelfer to speak to him, let alone invite him down to a third class party? And for the bloke to actually _come_...?

Trying to focus again upon his playing, John catches glimpses of people whirling in dance, a swarthy Italian boy asking a Norwegian girl if he might put his hand on her waist. Several fellows are whirling their ladies or gentlemen about, and a slightly-older couple does a brisk but somehow sedate style of dance in one corner. Roger's mouth appears to move faster than his legs, he jerks about like a newly-born horse, all stiff movements and wobbling knees. But the other fellow doesn't seem to mind a whit, and the blond has got an arm around his waist. He spins and dips the first class bloke with eyes that seemed incongruously large and sweet, sensitive in his artful face even as he stared down John during their fight. He had seemed so brash and yet so dour then, but right now is laughing uproariously with Roger and the other finds himself wishing to be part of what they are, aches to be in on the joke. They seem so bright and joyful and fully, truly _alive._

John admires that. Envies it a mite if he's being honest. If he hadn't downed a bit of liquid courage before deciding to fight, he would be sitting in the corner trying to blend into the wall currently - unless called to dance by virtue of the music. He dearly loves to dance, doing so lets him exist in his own little world. Playing is something else entirely. He really does enjoy it, yet is slowly growing cold with nerves. Shocked, horrified at the fact that he'd so baldly asked - nigh demanded - for Brian to let him play. What on earth had he been thinking? His fingers fumble but manage to stay light upon the strings and the song. He doesn't think he has a heavy song in him, but Brian with the rolling rush of music from his fiddle adds something yet of sorrow as he stands beside John, pouring himself into the music. 

Yet here he does stand, close, somehow seeming to lend a bit of comfort. He certainly appears to be enjoying himself and what John is doing, offering gentle glances and slight nods to him. And so the coldness seeps away again, coils and ropes of cold draining out of his abdomen rather than rising to twine round his innards and choke him. He's felt such a way before, it's one reason why he's comfortable in the bowels of this mighty ship, playing his guitar softly on break in the forward coal room. And yet tonight he'd asked to play up here. Not only that but he'd been given a chance. Well, hasn't got anything to lose, really. John feels Brian's presence right beside his chair and glances up to meet kind hazel eyes. The man hasn't moved, he stays at John's side and dances upper octave notes around the lower ones that John continues to play.

After being joined by the man with bagpipes again and a young lady with skill at a pennywhistle, at last the rollicking dance tune is cut off. Brian opens his mouth and hauls in a heavy breath as whoops sound and resound. He and John both are pounded on the back, folks shouting "good show!" And "pour those boys a beer!" The pennywhistle gal is hoisted up onto the shoulders of a burly Swede as the bagpiper gets his hand wrung. She squeals in shock and excitement, and John finds his hand taken by someone, Brian, as the other hauls him up to stand after putting away his fiddle. John carefully passes back the guitar to its owner, who bows to him, and honestly he has no clue where to look or what to do - until Brian wraps his arms around and embraces him in all of the excitement.

John feels surprisingly cool soft skin and hears the hammering of Brian's heartbeat against his cheek. Brian's open shirt is slightly damp from sweat, and then those strong thin fingers grasp his shoulders before the stabilising presence of Brian's body is gone. He abruptly shifts back a bit. "I'm sorry," Brian says. "I've overstepped, surely. Just - that was brilliant, John. Bravo. You were ... utterly exquisite on that axe, I -" Brian shakes his head, dabs away drops of sweat that fall from his brow, making his pale skin appear to glow as his cheeks tint pink from their exertion as well as the temperature in the room, surely. John knows that he is sweating too, though the heat is nowhere close to that he encounters every shift in the boiler rooms and as such, he hardly notes it.

Something stings John's eyes as he shakes his head now, though. Sweat, or tears, he isn't sure. It is a magical feeling in this moment to be so appreciated, seen and heard. To really feel how well he'd done on something he loves, even as a lark. John's stormy eyes are bright with an awe he finds he is unable to verbally express or articulate, so he gulps and shakes his head a bit. "No, I - that's alright," at last he manages. "Thank you. Yeah. I had a jolly good time, Brian. This was a lot of fun."

Brian grins at him, again - how many times has he smiled tonight? And says "That's good. I'm glad, John." Really glad. Bri feels a bit shocked at how strongly he feels. Truly though it was a fantastic time and he had been doing what he loves most in the world, making music. 

It's late, but not too late as the pair exit the stage to give way for some softer music, somewhat more sedate - the bagpipes are joined by the piping pennywhistle that pierces heart and air with sound, and the two men walk into the slightly thinning crowd, basking in their own joy and listening to others' manifestations of it. 

Surely this must be a magical ship, a ship of dreams.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> More connections to quirkysubject's work here, mostly chapter 6 if I am not mistaken
> 
> I thought about John's guitar work being akin to that in 'Who Needs You', one of two songs he wrote on the 1977 News of the World album. That song has an old-fashioned Latin music feeling to it, and I think it would be perfect for dancing on the E deck :)
> 
> Hope you liked this, Brian and John are going to chat a bit next chapter. Wonder what you'll think of them, they're both a bit awkward in some ways but Brian is so empathetic and instantly caring, when writing them together I continually think about an interview he and John did in Japan once where he just sat next to John and shifted close to provide support for him.
> 
> Comments appreciated <3


	9. Chapter 9

It is late, or early, now, and John knows he will have to head back on shift in just a few hours' time. Yet he does not want to retire for the night, not yet. He and Brian have just been given pints, for one; the warm beer contrasts with a bracing breeze emanating from the lower outdoor deck, as someone had finally gotten the bright idea to open doors out of the common room to bring airflow from outside, and the crowd is thinning out drastically as folks either head out for some of that air or off to bed. Roger is sighted wrapping Freddie's fine coat around the upper class man's shoulders and heading with him out of doors with a hand raised back to Brian and a jut of his chin towards John. The pair then heads out and up - back towards first class, most like.

"Eye of the needle," mumbles John, not realising that Brian stands right next to him again and speaks up at the same time.

"For it so falls out -" and then he stops, and blinks as John turns to him with a questioned

"What was that?"

"Sorry, I -"

Both chuckle a little as they share a glance and John flips his hand palm-up and gestures for Brian to continue his thought. "I never really know what to say," he confesses with a smacking of lips, broad lower one jutting out as he adds "Might as well dry up, I s'ppose, but. You were looking after, erm, saying something about them?" He prompts Brian.

Brian shifts, runs a hand through his hair. Seems a trifle uncomfortable, really. "It isn't my business," he says. "Just - Roger is my best friend, he's always tried to look after me honestly since the day we met." Brian's words tumble out quickly then, as if a dam had burst or he is going to confession. "Brought me with him onto this wonder of a steamer. I've had a ... run of trouble, well. Hard luck of late. Nothing too much, I mean, I lost a love and a spot in school, but Rog said 'Come on this ship with me, it'll be a way for you to start over, Bri. In _America!_ ' He seems to think this whole experience is the grandest adventure we'll ever be on and that I've got to take a chance, run madly, for once. Says we'll be millionaires, or billionaires in New York City. Has all the verve and optimism in the world, does my Rogie. But here..." Expelling a sigh so heavy as to seemingly shatter his bulk and end his being, Brian drops himself down to settle upon the stage. Pulls lengthy legs up to his chest and rests his chin on bent knees. Seems weighted down, suddenly, to John as he too settles back to sit beside. Brian gulps his beer and huffs a second sigh through his nostrils, waving a hand after Freddie. "Look at that, at him. Roger's chasing something, he's so carefree and sure he'll be able to have a good time, and I'm...not. Feel sometimes like I'm holding him back, heh. Example, if the media wasn't so certain this ship is nigh unsinkable, I'd be going over every possible sinking scenario in me mind. Even then, I don't trust the media, though I hope it to be right. Ergh, see?" He puts down his pint and covers his face with his hands, glancing through his fingers at John apologetically. "I'm sorry, I dunno why I - I really oughtn't burden you with this, John." They hardly know each other, after all - have only shared names and enjoyment of music. Not to mention John _works_ on this ship, for heaven's sake. God, Brian has probably just insulted him severely. But John is sitting and listening, even so.

How long has it been since John first got here. An hour? Two? More like three, surely; his side feels mostly well though he's sure to have some bruises from the final punch Freddie gave. He has grown content during time up here, yet Brian now seems so very lost and sad. John clears his throat and extends a hand to pat the other's shoulder. "I don't mind," he says softly. "Honestly, I... Well there's not too much deep talk down in the boiler room." Mostly singing or crass jokes intermixed with barking orders from head electricians or firemen, the sharp hiss of steam and constantly rumbling engines. It's nice, this, a quiet moment between blokes without the risk of a curse thrown at you, nevermind a coal fire. Brian's voice is soothing, sweet, and John wishes he knew what to say that could help in some way, alleviate this man's worry and sadness. 

John smiles at Brian, grip shifting from his shoulder to his nearer knee even as he wants to pull away when seeing the grease spots on his knuckles. Oh, hopefully he hadn't gotten any smeared on the guitar. Can't tell as the bloke who owned it has left by now. Really it's them, an older couple, and the bartender who is cleaning glasses here alone. The couple sways together in a dance of their own, stout little woman gazing up into her husband's eyes as he murmurs something too soft to hear. They appear to be lost in each other, listening to some music in their own little world. Brian watches them, hands dropping from his face as John pats his knee and tells him "You're all right, Brian." 

It's strange to receive contentment from such a little act and a quiet word, but Brian does. "Thank you, John," he breathes. Wants to take hold of the other's hand suddenly, to tell him of his near marriage to Chrissie, his estrangement from his parents, his wishes for himself and for the world. But it all remains jumbled up in his throat, catching, because that is too much to tell, no matter how considerate John is being. 

So Brian settles his shoulders and nods at the younger man, eyes holding so many emotions that John cannot catalogue them, and only blinks and catches up his beer. "Let's toast for better, for good things, Brian. Erm." Lifting the glass hesitantly, he nearly winces at such trite words, but Brian does not seem to mind a bit.

"'For it so falls out that what we have we prize not to the worth whiles we enjoy it, but being lacked and lost, why, then we rack the value. Then we find the virtue that possession would not show us whiles it was ours.' Cheers." He clinks his glass against John's and drains it.

The other follows suit, a tiny crease between his brows as he drinks. "Cheers." John studies Brian closely, curiously as his throat pulls to get down the last of the lukewarm alcohol. He knows that big bit the other spoke is a quote from summat, but isn't sure. It tugs at his mind from a place in upper school, kids bent over textbooks.

Brian wishes he could stop the blush but he feels John staring, and coughs, clearing his throat. "That's from Shakespeare," he speaks, feeling as if he needs to apologise again. "Sorry, I - just love his verbiage. It sticks in me head, like. I think it's -"

"Musical," John nods as he finishes Brian's sentence. "Yeah. Dunno exactly what that one's from, but it sounded familiar." He plans to ask more, but his nose crinkles in an expansive yawn he tries to cover, and at the sight of the horizon beginning to glow, "Oh mercy me, it's sunrise, I've stayed up all night and 've got shift at seven, but." Looking to Brian, and rising to his feet, he beckons for the other to come with him. Cannot miss the sunrise after everything. And really, the young engineer reflects as he pulls Brian to stand just by the window so the other might see the sun rise too, he wouldn't trade this night for anything.

Sleeplessness and all.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> *Brian's quote is from Much Ado About Nothing by William Shakespeare, spoken in the first scene of Act Four by the friar, and I found it apropos
> 
> Brian is a sharer from what I've seen and heard and read, and John seems like someone whose presence and ability to quietly listen would be comforting :) Brian and John's friendship is so understated and underrated and yet in my opinion it's SO important
> 
> Bri still worries about his Roger and wants to keep him safe
> 
> This is a bit of a shorter chapter, the next will be taking place over the 13th of April. Getting closer, aaahhh
> 
> Hope you're still enjoying, comments appreciated <3


	10. Chapter 10

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> After the party, Brian is deep in thought
> 
> Warning for slight suicidal ideation; I say slight because it is a brief mention/wondering. Also slight panic mentioned

Brian's brain is buzzing.

It's been like that since he watched the sunrise with John, seeing the glow of golden rays illuminating the young engineer's cheeks and lightening his eyes. Brian wished to capture such serene beauty in some way, but of course he had left his camera shut in the room. Saying good day and walking John back to the stairwell that goes down three decks to where the boiler room workers go on shift, and the tiny rooms crew members reside in on ship, Brian inwardly laments that. Glory holes, the crew berths are apparently called.

Brian asks if John wishes to meet up again "To play together, I mean. And to talk, if - I've much enjoyed keeping company with you this night." He feels his face heat up at that and can already imagine Roger's ribbing were he to hear: _'You enjoyed "keeping company" with him? For fuck's sake, Brian --'_ yet his embarrassment dissipated when John beamed even as he yawned. They make plans to find one another out sometime after the engineer's shift ends. "Might can rustle up an entire band then, whaddya think?" 

Certain that he had been getting ahead of himself, Brian was elated and relieved when the other man agreed and smiled, and then as if on impulse leaned his body into Brian's for a hug. A bit different from the embrace they had shared after playing, that had occurred in a moment of almost out-of-body excitement and the glory of crowd response to their rousing work. Now, perhaps in part due to their combined exhaustion and time together chatting, this embrace is gentle and solid, full of thankfulness and affection. A searing feeling for Brian in that it makes his heart thud hollowly when John at last relinquishes his hold with those leanly muscled arms to turn and shuffle blearily down the hall, off to whatever bed he may find til his shift begins in less than an hour's time.

Brian strolls back up to his and Roger's berth, knowing he shall not be sleeping any time soon. Mostly because of insomnia, but also on this occasion because of John. He does feel a mite foolish - more than a mite, if he is being perfectly honest - to have told John anything about his state of mind. Roger keeps on telling him to go on, get out of his head and stop harping on what he had left and lost, yet Brian tells the first person to whom he's really talked to for more than five minutes at a time about his abysmal luck in life and love. Or rather alluded to his own choices that had caused his parents to cut off contact and Chrissie to leave him....

"Oi," speak - or rather think - of the devil, a limb knocks smartly into the wood above Brian's bed as he carefully comes tiptoeing into their compartment and settles his tired body into his tiny bunk. Head is buffeted as a nimble body drops next to him, long blond tresses rumpled and smile wide.

"You're chipper today," Brian returns.

"Why wouldn't I be? Sun's up shining above the ship and we're off to make our fortunes in America!" Roger crows.

"Learnt something about that from your new top shelfer chum, did you?" Brian inquires archly. "He give you some tried-and-true wealth accruing tips?"

"As a matter of _fact --_ " Roger's eyes dance and he licks his lips in a manner that causes Brian to shake his head and lift his hand as if to bat away any subsequent words. He has been mates with Roger long enough to know that he is not averse to sharing... whatever might be going on, but really the more ... _intimate_ details are none of Brian's business. He had not missed the way that Roger and Freddie looked at each other last night.

"Keep your secrets, Roger, please. I expect you'll be heading off to find him again by way of some elaborate disguise." Roger snickers but does not deny the words, and Brian rolls his eyes. "Fine, well, don't forget to show up with a drum for practise at SOME point, yeah? Bring him with you if you must."

Roger absolutely beams as he pulls on shirt and trousers, snapping and slinging his suspenders carelessly over both shoulders. "Yeah?" he rumpled his own hair more, so bright with forceful infectious joy, wrapping arms around Brian and kissing both of his lean cheeks in the manner of the French. "Merci beaucoup, Bri." 

Brian cannot stop the flush that tints his cheeks nor the automatic leap of his heart with gladness at this physical affection. He had not realised, perhaps his entire life he has been starved for it. "Yes, well. Alright, Rog. I _will_ see you though, yeah? I plan to find a room down way of G Deck or summat."

"Yeah, 'a course," Roger shrugs into his coat and shoes. "I'll meetcha, Bri. May be tomorrow...," He jerks open the door and waggles his eyebrows before turning to head down the hall.

"Don't be late!" Brian whisper-shouts after him. He knew instinctively that it would be awhile from the first second he saw his friend, that gleam in Roger's bright eyes tells a lot. This is all so thrilling for his friend, but Brian hopes he will not get hurt. Bright soul he may be, but Rog has led far from an easy life so far and it is all-too-possible that, flying so high with members of the elite... It's, well. Brian fervently hopes he will not get burned.

That worry seeps into his tone of voice as he cannot stop himself from begging Roger to be careful, and hears an "Oh sod off, Brian, I'll be fine!" Spake with jovial exasperation in return.

***

Brian is not sure what all to do without Roger round. He is used to having his best mate's boisterous - bordering always on annoying and at times exhausting - presence by his side. Rog is forever urging him to get out and do things, however, and so with a sigh Brian shuts up his violin in the bin at foot of the bunks and grabs up his sketchbook, heading out to the deck. 

Another bright day discourages faffing about down on E or F Deck, and as he cannot exactly sneak into and insert himself in one of the upper-class ship tours, never mind the fact that he would love to learn more about this ship; his height would instantly get him noticed if not the guilt breaking over his face for being there. He has half a mind to try finding the exercise, engine or boiler rooms - wherever they may precisely be - but without a guide from the crew and no surety in what place John is working, Brian cannot justify going. Besides, he doesn't want to bother the man, he is probably getting much needed food or rest if he isn't on shift at present, or wanting to hunker down for a minute without some big horse-faced lanky bloke appearing in order to blather on about music or machines. Or about anything, really. "Once Brian gets wound up, it takes a sledgehammer to shut him down", his good mate Tim Staffell once said. Because whenever Brian becomes interested in something, which he does admit, happens often, he spouts off any and all information he amasses in excitement.

Pressing his lips together and ducking his head as he moves through a door and up stairs to head out on deck, Brian pulls his sketchbook to his chest. He doesn't blame Tim, or anyone, really - for not wanting to listen. It smarts a bit, yes, but he does tend to ramble and would do well to remember he is not slated for Uni any longer. Most people in the world need not listen or go into some knowledgeable debate for high marks. So Bri jogs up the stairs and out of doors by himself. 

Stretching his legs and lengthening his strides feels good as he makes it through the outer door and ends up practically running onto and across the deck. Stops at the railing, chest heaving, heart fluttering as do his pages in the bracing wind. _Titanic_ is whipping along at close to twenty knots, sure, and he peers over the side into the miasma of roiling blue. 

Knees of a sudden turn to jelly and buckle as he falls to sit half turned from, half pressed to the rail bars. Fumbling to open up his notebook at its knot, mostly for something to do, Brian realises he had forgotten to bring a writing utensil. He closes his eyes in despair. Roger always carries a nub of charcoal or lead behind his ear or in a pocket to whip out for a sketch, whilst Brian can spare no thought in his head for legitimate practicalities. Of course. How could he? His father said his head was ever in the clouds.

_"Come back to earth and join us."_

Thinking on his father's words makes Brian recall him and his mum, their responses to him going to America. _"Another mad dream,"_ his dad had scoffed, so disapproving. _"That wastrel Taylor boy put this in your head, didn't he?"_

And for once, Brian had snapped. Never mind he could think and decide for himself what he would do. Never mind he'd gotten the Royal Mail clerk job FOR his father, to do well and get money after university was no longer an option once his dad got sick. Disappointed in him both of his parents were free to be, as he disappoints himself, feels as if he is running away. But no one should categorise Roger as anything but strong and good and brave. Not to mention loyal. Bit brash too, yes, yet he is anything but a wastrel. "He's me best mate, Da, and I won't have you speaking ill of him." In the next breath he added "He's like my brother, and he believes in me." 

_More than you surely do. More than I believe in meself._

Brian's breath hitches as pain flares in his chest, around his heart. Is this the way it feels to have one's heart break? He cannot catch his breath for an excruciating, endless moment, and he imagines somehow slipping between the rails and pylons of the ship to fall... Someone would have to jump in after if they saw, the sailors. Or throw him a line. Brian is not wholly clear on the practises of ocean rescue for a man overboard, and he does not wish to cause a scene or bother anyone. Besides he can imagine Roger staring at him, all the emotions in those bright blue eyes, the way he'd looked back in their berth on Thursday night, when he'd hugged Brian hard and said how sorry he was that things had been shit. So sharp and perceptive Roger is, which Brian has a tendency to forget due to his effusive childishness, an oxymoronic aspect of the most worldly person that Brian knows.

His hands scrabble briefly upon the deck and his pages, and an uncertain amount of time later a pair of feet, footfalls come up and stop beside him. Squinting up into the glare of the sun overhead, he sees a man in a suit, dark pressed slacks and crisp white shirt, perfectly folded cravat. No tie but still presentable, as Brian imagines, hopes that he would be if in college, not relegated to a lowly clerk.... But the man in the suit is speaking to Brian now. "Pardon me, I'm sorry," Brian winces and starts to clamber to his feet, all knobbly knees and lanky arms and head feeling so heavy with the amount of hair oil he needed to keep his curls contained. He straightens his back and clenches one fist behind himself, remembering proper, upper-class stance to take, yet feeling so gangly and gloomy and awkward. 

"At ease, lad," the voice is gentle. "I don't presume the need for a salute or standing straight. I only wonder if you're all right, you look pale."

"Oh -" Brian has no comprehension of how to tell this well-dressed gentleman (who is somehow familiar, now he thinks on it) that he'd just been contemplating the act of tumbling off the side of this behemoth of a ship. Would he care to know? Most likely not, and if his familiarity is in fact because he's of the crew, speaking so might get Brian confined for his own good. "Ach, child, don't ya know you're young, you've got your whole life ahead of you," Brian whispers and wishes more mightily than ever for a pen. Mayhap he should plead seasickness. _Ah aah, don't you throw it away too soon, way too soon -_ "I've never before been on such a ship as this is," he blurts out. "Truly she is a marvel, sir. But it's - it can get lonely out here." Brian's eyes flicker from the man's open, listening face towards the horizon, uncertain how best to explain. "Indoors is a city of bright metal and varnished wood and, yet with more than a thousand people aboard I just now felt...very much alone." Brian gulps and ducks his head in embarrassment and shame. Divulging such darkness, to a stranger no less, it's just as mortifying as speaking the way he had to John the night before. It simply is not done. Surely isn't something he should do. This is Roger's territory, speaking rashly. Yet Roger does not have this darkness within.

Brian jerks in surprise as the other returns "I can understand. Life on the sea - even for only a few days at a time - gets lonely. We are at a point where so much, all that we know for certain is behind us, and only dreams and wishes lie ahead." His eyes have gone to the horizon. "You've not seen New York," his next words are half question, half statement.

Brian shakes his head. "No sir, I haven't."

"I guessed not. She is a glorious city of far more than a thousand. I hope there you won't be lonely, yet the only thing certain to change between here and there is you. Our bearings alter naturally," his lips twitch up at his own commentary. "And the only thing I can change for you is with the act of introducing myself. Thomas Andrews," he turns to Brian and extends his hand. "You'll see me all over this ship, checking on her state and on the states of all aboard. So you shan't be alone."

Brian sucks in a breath, eyes widening with some shock as he returns Andrews' handshake. This man is, if he remembers aright - which is why he had looked so familiar - "I'm Brian Harold May," he blurts out his full name. "And you - you're the architect of this ship, aren't you, sir?"

Andrews smiles, gripping Brian's hand. "Yes I am," he still speaks easily. "But if you would, please don't make a fuss over me."

Brian shakes his head and replies before he can stop to think: "No sir, I imagine you probably get more than enough of that from gentlefolk up top."

There is a prolonged moment where Brian wonders if he is fixing to be cuffed round the head or boxed upon the ear, but not only is Andrews an esteemed gentleman, he has a sense of humour. Clapping his other hand on top of Brian's with a laugh "Precisely," he says. Patting and relinquishing the younger man's hand with a nod and a smile "Is there anything I might do for you just now?"

"I -" Brian hates to presume, or even to inquire at all, but "Have you a - pencil I might borrow? I'd intended to write out here but forgot to bring an untensil." He has yet to finish his sentence when Mr Andrews opens his jacket and extricates a pen from the pocket inside. He hands it off to Brian. "Thanks so much, I'll be sure and get it back to you -"

"No, not at all. Keep it. I only hope writing can bring you comfort. If you'd like to send a missive to anyone, our radio room sends out telegrams and letters. Our head operator Jack is steady on, and his second Harold is a good chap. As I can see you are, May."

And with that Brian's awe of this man is certain. He blinks rapidly and bumbles off "I, erm. Met Harold last night," and "Thank you, sir. Erm, Mr Andrews." Then, not believing his daring: "Call me Brian."

"Well then you know," Andrews takes such an admittance in stride, which is a relief, as Brian still isn't sure if as a passenger he was permitted in the vicinity of the Marconi Suite without reason. "Brian, it's been a pleasure meeting you. I hope you shall soon see less lonesome days." And they bid one another farewell for now, as Andrews has yet another upper deck engagement at which he must make an appearance. 

"Good luck," Brian offers, speaking again before he thinks better of it, and the architect smiles.

"To you as well, Brian," he responds with a wave as he turns and crosses back over the deck. Brian finds a chair nearby and folds, settles himself into it, reverently clutching Andrews' pen before beginning to write.

_Can't face this life alone...._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Poor Brian is so hard on himself and such a lonely soul :'( Sleepy Deacy cuddling up to him makes him happy though. And me too :)
> 
> Thank goodness for Mr Andrews! (I think goodness here is the opportune word)
> 
> Comments appreciated <3


	11. Chapter 11

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Afternoon of 13 April, same day and location as the previous chapter

Brian remains out of doors for several hours, writing snippets of song and composing letters, things he longs to say to Chrissie, to his parents, or even to his boss back at the clerk's office, as he cannot help but feel as though he had been running away by coming on this voyage - not only from home but also from thence. Even as he had returned to see his parents after Rog told him about the tickets he'd gotten for them, to say come on, they'd be sailing on the _Titanic_!

He hadn't jumped to go, exactly, but. 

_You say your folks are telling you to be a ..._ A billionaire, Brian thinks, lips twitching. _But I tell you just be satisfied, stay right where you are. Keep yourself alive, keep yourself alive, all you people keep yourselves alive!_ His eyes are arrested by passengers walking the deck; the lovely older couple who'd danced late last night are strolling arm-in-arm and a little girl runs from her father, whooping as they play a game of keep-away. He recognises the father and her as well, she is the girl Roger had danced with. Cora. Her dad had been the one to kick everything off with his bagpipes last night - well, both nights, really. Brian smiles at that, even as he feels stagnant and times are so torrid, and -

"Sweetheart, look out!" Cora's father counsels as his little girl is running and twirling with her arms extended. She spins directly into Brian's knees and he reaches out a second too late to catch her tumbling, yet she spins off into a pair of sinewy arms less than a metre away on deck.

"Oof, caught ya. You alright there, Cora?" Crinkled eyes and cheeks folded as his lips stretch into a gapped-tooth smile, the wiry young engineer from the boxing match on E Deck steadies the little lass who'd beaten him. "Can I say we're even now then? It is Cora, right?" Releasing her head after steadying her and taking a knee to be as level with her as possible "Hullo, I'm John."

Her tiny face crinkles as she recognises him, but her expression is far from happy. "You hit the prince," she speaks accusingly.

John bows his head. "Yes, I did and you stopped me so he could send me down. So I think that makes you a knight in shining armour, y'know."

Cora thinks on that; Brian sees her forehead wrinkle and shares a warm glance with her father as John's eyes twinkle over to his. 

"You defeated me in honourable combat, Miss Cora," John lifts both hands and clasps them together imploringly. "Your power fully bests mine. Will you spare me life with a truce, please?" 

John's begging is so earnest yet comical that Brian must press his fingers against his lips to hold back laughter. Cora looks up at her father, who comes to stand behind her, and a pealing, glorious, contagious giggle bursts out of her. She pats the crown of John's head in magnanimous fashion, almost ruffling his hair. "Okay," she says. "I truce you."

John blows out air from puffing cheeks and gravely inclines his head. "Thank you."

"...And what do you say to him for helping you just now, Cora?" Asks her father.

With a slight scuff of her foot over the grain of the deck as John stands "Thank you," she says, incongruously shy, hiding against her dad's leg as John bows again to her.

"You're welcome."

"Well done, my girl. Come now, I think we could use a spot of luncheon, couldn't we? See you lads later?" He asks both young men with a friendly smile before officially introducing himself. "Frank Cartmell, at y' service." Shakes both Brian and John's hands before taking his daughter's.

"Yes sir, and yours," Brian replies, and registers the physical double-take the father gives as he and his daughter head away with a wave. How strange it is for him to hear such a polite, nearly deferential response, the visible manifestation of not being or feeling like a sir that Brian sees so much in the people of his class who have done well enough in working and deserve the same respect afforded to those of the mid- and upper class. Yet they are not given it. Brian has always believed in and afforded respect and titles to everyone he can. He turns now to John with a polite inclination of his head and a "Lovely to see you again, Mr Deacon."

Quiet mirth remains encrouched in the young engineer's eyes as he returns "You as well, Mr May." They hold that prim politeness until John bursts into laughter, which in turn sets Brian off. 

"Did you get off shift just now?" Brian asks after the laughter peters out. "You had to go in at, what was it, seven?" Inwardly calculating in the space of seconds "By George, it's after three pm!"

John blinks, draws his head back with eyes widening a trifle. "Okay, yes, it is. Had my eight hour shift, y'know."

"And hardly any rest last night," Brian's eyes go downcast. "I'm sorry for that."

"It's alright," the younger responds, features still so expressive even as he goes silent for a bit. Smacks his lips and bobs his head. "I'm used to the hours, and nice to get out, y'know. Usually play me guitar alone in the collier room during shift break, and well." He claps his hands and gestures outward, showcasing blots of grease on his knuckles and uniform, cracks and callouses - and are those burns? on his skin, as well as blunt nails bit down to the quick. Brian notices the nails especially as they are like his, filed down. Could it be due to nerves, he wonders, and if so... there's plenty the other man could potentially be nervous about, but most interesting to him: 

"You have your own guitar?" Brian asks John, feeling excitement crackling through his limbs, face and fingers as his mind whirls. "That's wonderful! I mean, would you - if you'd care to play again, with your own guitar, and with Rog, me mate - he's got a good handle on timekeeping, Rogie has. We could - I dunno if there's a smaller more private place for us to practise..."

"I can get a room for us," John speaks up, colour rising into his cheeks as he suggests it. "For all, I mean there are spaces on lower decks, y'know." John stops speaking and breathes and nods as though to himself before settling his shoulders. "Yes, I mean I, erm, can locate a place for us all to play in and bring me guitar along."

Brian beams. He doesn't know rightly what it is, but John's is a soothing presence, calming the remainder of raging melancholy he had felt most of this day. 

***

Not much of note happens the remainder of the night, save for John taking Brian in and down to the crew mess hall on H Deck to eat after learning in oblique fashion the other man had not eaten much of anything that day, and it isn't an issue for him to be in mess with the crew: "Honestly so many people grab up their grub and go on shift," John explains. "Be nice to have someone to sit with." And talk to, really. Surprisingly. But this man is so easy to talk to. Brian is simply struck by the fact this occurrence is turning his thoughts about not bothering John upon their head.

They talk some more of music and other things over a late dinner, or early supper, rather. John has a family back home that he left as well, "Snuck out, a bit," he confesses. "I'm not yet eighteen, but. This was a good gig. Love engineering and want to see the world, if I can." He looks down at his trencher, bashful as Brian leans in, seeming legitimately interested. John doesn't get that too much when he does speak. "Just, erm. Have always liked fixing things, learning how they work. Great place to be, on a ship, for that. Y'know?"

Brian nods, thoughtful. "Yes, I see how it would be. The creation of this, it's..." He waves a hand, eyes travelling up the sides of the ship in the hall where they sit, catching on rivets and tile work and all the intricacies. It really is a marvel, as he had said to Mr Andrews. He feels lucky to be in sight of it, to witness this historic crossing, and says as much to John, who nods with mouth now full. Brian thinks up a couple of lyrics then: _In the year of 1912, assembled here the Volunteers..._ and his fingers twitch. He folds his hands together beside his closed sketchbook and then reaches out to lift a mug and sip some tea.

John's gaze flickers from Brian to the book. "Go on," he says. "I don't mind you writing."

Brian nearly chokes on his tea. "Pardon?"

"Oh, I - well I saw you working earlier," John confesses. "On deck. Was watching, just a bit." The way Brian bent to his task, long pale hand flying over the page with such grace as his curls floated, ruffling in the slight wind. For once he'd seemed calm, focused. Not worried about his words or his hair or... John doesn't pretend to know what goes on in Brian's head, but if he had to hazard a guess currently, practically all the time he suspects it would be buzzing like the low frequency on electrical wires when they're hot. "So, erm. I mean, go ahead, with your writing, if you like. If you've got a - a bug."

Brian looks at him and then fumbles at the knot to open his book. "Well, if you're sure it isn't rude," he says, "then thanks." Takes out the pen and scribbles on his next blank page, tongue clamped between his teeth and words flowing, flying so fast. John is mesmerised to see it. He cannot read what the other man has written, and does not want to invade his privacy, but it is really something to see an idea, a piece of inspiration take hold. 

Perhaps if he finds a way to ask, if they have the time, he can read a bit of Brian's writing tomorrow.

They had decided two pm the following day, on E Deck, would be good for a bit of practising. After supper and his writing, John shows Brian the room he thought about, with a portable piano that causes the fellow to catch his breath and almost run to it. "...May I?" He asks if he might try the piano, as if John is in charge here, which the engineer has never experienced before. 

"Erm, sure."

"I'm not really any good -" Brian starts, but to his surprise as well as John's, the other speaks up sharply. 

"Bollocks to that, just play." 

And so Brian does, a little melody he'd been hearing in his head, something soft and lulling, sweet and haunting and beautiful. It stays in John's ears, wrapping round him somehow, and he wishes he had some ability to sing along with it. There are words; Brian had propped his book up, one cover hanging haphazardly off the top of the little piano lid, and John stands next to him, wanting to take a peek but also still not wishing to intrude. It seems so private, this. Listening to this song is like seeing inside Brian's head, or perhaps his heart. Those lengthy fingers ghost across the keys, his wrists held up as the notes dance and John does not plan to, but begins moving in time, step and step and step and turn -

"You dance," Brian says, notes faltering a little as he takes his mind off of the song to look over at John, who freezes. "No, don't stop, I like it. You've got more rhythm than me," he offers, and John feels content. He wonders how Brian knows how to do that, to speak in a manner that makes a person feel special and valued. He resumes dancing, swaying a bit as Brian finishes the song, and its melody remains floating through his head even after they bid one another a pleasant night.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Until tomorrow, then.
> 
> *The older couple I have referred to twice thus far will later return, they are Ida and Isidor Straus. First class folks, actually, who would I think want to dance wherever they could :)
> 
> *Brian is coming up with some of his famous pieces, and yes, that's a slightly altered version of '39, which I hope is forgivable.
> 
> We will be seeing more of Roger and Freddie next chapter, which takes place on the afternoon and evening of 14 April. (Which is when things pop off)
> 
> Comments appreciated <3


	12. Chapter 12

Brian doesn't need to get to the room John had found for them so early, and he definitely doesn't need to go find John and ask if he wants to come early as well, but he's got his music and his fiddle and John brings his guitar out of the tiny room in crew berthing (down on G Deck) wherein he is boarded on ship. He seems shy about it, though really it isn't too far different in size from a third-class cabin. Brian had told Roger to come to the room they had got at 2pm, and Roger had nodded absently, humming. 

Rog had been seemingly in his own little world before he left, which Brian had not paid the most attention to because his own mind was occupied by searching for his ruddy hair oil which had disappeared at some point before the morning, bollocks to that. He'd had to practically give himself a helmet of oil yesterday to keep his curls down, and now they're going to be everywhere. He wishes he had access to a barber on board. Rog had teased that he could be Brian's barber, apparently he'd been one once, but sharp utensils in Roger's hands anywhere near his head? No thank you. Especially not were he to try his hand out on a _ship moving over the ocean._ Brian had said as much slowly and deliberately to Roger, but he either hadn't got it or was pretending not to, just to get on Brian's nerves.

He'd been off gallivanting with Freddie almost daily, it seemed, since he met him; and when Brian asked how his day went when Roger finally appeared last night, his soft face had split into a downright devilish grin and Brian stopped his queries. Not that he didn't legitimately want to know about his friend's day, he just. Didn't want to open up the door for Roger to share a wee bit too much. Brian had made such a mistake before, and Roger is so carefree and open (he almost admires that, sometimes. Really) that he is more than happy to go into _all_ the details of a wondrous day, and sometimes a few of those details are ones that Brian feels ought to remain private.

Though he is truly touched that Roger knows Brian will not judge with whom he chooses to spend his time. "Quite open-minded, you are really, Bri - 'specially for a bloke who's never stepped a foot outside England!" Roger said once after detailing a few of his more...to polite society, scandalous - perhaps deviant - escapades in other countries and Brian, though blushing furiously over several of the comments, was not unwilling to let Roger talk. He hadn't been disgusted.

Because he wasn't. There were some customs he found odd, and occupations or choices Brian does not fully understand, but he dearly loves Rog, he loves listening and learning about anything new, and he wants everyone to be accepted for themselves. 

Which is one reason he had wanted to see if he and John could arrive at the practise room early; he's been wanting to pick the younger fellow's brain. Because there's more to John than meets the eye in talent, Brian is sure. He wants to know what sorts of music John knows and likes. Wants to learn even more about him. Brian does not read music in the sense of knowing staffs and clefs and rests and time signatures. He can name chords and write notes along with lyrics, but that's about everything he'd taught himself. Along with how to play the violin, but that was, well he knows how differently classical musicians play. His piano work is not masterful by any means, as he'd said to John last night; but he thinks he could be well on his way to learning how to read music by utilising the keys of a piano. Wonders if John knows how at all.

John does not. Or that is what he says. "Also can't sing, not a lick," he adds when Brian asks about whether or not he can read music. "Can't pick out a melody from a harmony. Can just - play." Holds up his guitar almost awkwardly, but then goes directly into a swinging little number that Brian knows pretty well.

It's a bouncy beat, and Brian hums the tune of the words as he opens his fiddle case and joins in with John. A bit surprised John can just whip out the tune on guitar, but he doesn't want to heavy-hand it over him on the piano, and so does his best to join in the reworking of Shelton Brooks' song by adding a little violin solo.

After they do a bit of riffing on that as well as some other songs, John can hardly help himself from asking Brian to play some more on the piano. Brian demurs "I think Roger is bringing Freddie, who's learnt piano and doubtlessly plays far better than me...,"

John rolls his eyes and snorts. "Guess you'll be under pressure then," he says. "But right now I... Your song last night was lovely, Brian. And I didn't even need to know the words. Though I'd... I would like to. If you wanted to tell me 'em, y'know." John cannot believe his own daring.

Brian ducks his face and smiles. "I actually don't quite know all of the words to it yet," he admits, putting down his fiddle, making John's heart leap as he actually moves over to the piano and sits at the bench. "it's odd, sometimes I write songs and all the words are there immediately, it's like a story I'm able to instantaneously tell. Whereas others...the lyrics sometimes give me a hard time, is all." He clears his throat and presses two keys with his right hand to begin, trailing over an octave lower with the left as he softly sings, sweet high voice not piercing but clear on the words:

_"When I'm gone, no need to wonder if I ever think of you. The same sun shines, the same wind blows, for both of us and time is but a paper moon. Be not gonnnne...."_

John catches his breath as Brian bends, hunching over the keys as he pours himself into this. He could be wrong, but something makes John sure this song comes from something in Brian's heart, it is his feelings crying out to be heard. So he carefully settles just behind the bench and strums along with his guitar, providing a baseline of harmonic notes.

_Though I'm gone it's just as though I hold the flower that touches you. A new life grows, the blossom knows  
There's no one else could warm my heart as much as you... Be not gone!_

_Let us cling together as the years go by oh my love, my love. In the quiet of the night let our candle always burn  
Let us never lose the lessons we have learned._

He goes into something like a bridge, where John can so easily imagine other words, the swelling of an orchestra, and Brian's voice breaks as he sings a bit that sounds like it's come from the bridge, a higher register. Or maybe octave? John isn't sure how it's described for vocal work. _"Ohhh they'll say we're all fools and we don't understand! Oh be strong, don't turn your heart - we're all, you're all, for all, for always..."_

At the last his voice cracks, his breath heaves, limber fingers pounding on the keys, and John thinks somehow if a guitar had more power than just the wood and strings it might be helpful in this. But then Brian stops and his back hunches, and John thinks he is hearing soft sobs. Which will not do. He puts down his guitar and steps directly behind Brian, hand going to his shoulder. The muscle is so tight there, that John cannot help but hold on, as though he can leech away some of the tightness with his presence, and Brian rests his lean cheek against the back of John's hand as if on impulse. 

Those soft black curls tickle John's skin, and the engineer doesn't know what possesses him, but he takes his fingertips from the nape of Brian's neck and pushes them up through his hair to the crown and then over the top of Brian's head. Providing pressure and stroking Brian's hair and scalp. Brian closes his eyes, what looks like tear tracks drip down along his cheeks, but his shoulders slowly start to relax. "There," John whispers, not entirely registering what he is saying; he only means to be comforting. "There now, Brian."

Brian lets his head move with John's touch, and expels a slight groan as it falls back eventually, his mouth hanging open just a bit as strong fingers push at a spot just over his forehead, and then along his neck. John's shoulder is behind, just at the height for Brian's head to rest, and he tries not to feel like a ridiculous child or something as this young man stands and strokes the sorrows away. It's as if that is what John is trying to do, and Brian is more than willing to let him. He is so tired of himself, the constant melancholy that persists, permeates even into something so wonderful as this, to making music. He knows Roger would sigh and call him melodramatic.

Where _is_ Roger at the moment? He knows he'd told him the room number, and the time, and almost wants to ride and go check down the hallway, but John's hands feel so amazing as he rubs Brian's head, and so he stays for just a few moments more, allowing himself to relax under John's touch.

Eventually he rises to peer into the hallway as John takes his fingers off his head, pressing both of Brian's shoulders and stepping back. It's as if that movement speaks, though Bri is unclear precisely what it says. He simply feels a burst of affection as he stands and John nods to him before getting out the other instruments he'd been able to procure from god knows where, including a drum and a little tambourine. Observant, ever working and listening so closely, he'd thought of everything. 

He is growing nervous, John admits to himself, as Brian had stated the top-shelfer would likely be coming along with Roger. Not that an inherent issue something of that nature would cause, but. John isn't comfortable with groups of people at the best of times. It's different during work, he is part of a group that works in tandem as a unit to take care of the ship. This is about individual work, and differing opinions, and -

John feels Brian's presence beside him then. The other man's face is clear, no trace of the tears that fell during his song. "It needs something more," he said. "Like your guitar, yes, for a base. More lyrics, too. But with a group of us together, maybe..."

"You can bring it in and out, me guitar, yes, and erm. Different approaches might help." John has no doubt their ideas will be different as soon as Roger makes it inside, in fact, Brian having patted his arm and gone out the door for anothrr look. John heard a kerfuffle, an accusatory "You're late!" And then that bouncing expressive blond had come in, gotten one good look at him, and snarled. 

So much for a unit.

Somehow the situation is calmed, John is surprised to find it done so by the toffer - Freddie, as he'd asked to be called - Freddie, a far cry from the _Your Grace_ John initially tossed off, earning himself a dirty look.

Freddie introduces John to Roger, and Roger to John; who has to admit that the top-shelfer fellow is quite able to admit to the lucky outcome of their fight and let bygones be bygones. Hard to say with Taylor, but Brian remonstrates "Rog," softly, and with a stubborn jerk of the chin, he'd got John's hand in a vice grip. But John can handle that easily, he's been around Bill after all, and besides there's something about Roger that makes him smile. He's got strength, and tough bluster, but seems like he has heart too. He'd come in blazing to try and protect Freddie, after all. John noticed that, as did Brian, with a slight squinting of the eyes. And Roger shoots a grin of bared teeth back at John, Brian is introduced, and somehow the potential of another fight averted makes John far less nervous about the working up of songs to come.

And then he hears Freddie's voice and Roger's drumming with Brian's fiddle, and once he finds the rhythm change Freddie wants "so it isn't boring" they're kicking along, and then Roger crows over Freddie's ability at the piano. Brian, who'd left his book there, shared a glance with John as he moves it aside, and they come to stand and listen to something otherworldly, it seems; has a bit of Brian's melancholic way about it but something else too, a distant world of mists and magic, and John feels caught up. They all work tune after tune, Freddie beaming with his upper lip curled off teeth that John notices, because of the gap in his own, as being large, or rather that it looks as if Freddie's got more than the usual number. It's a brief moment he thinks on that, maybe it's why his voice is so good - but Brian's bow is flying and Roger's whooping and keeping time, and they're all coming together with layers of harmony behind Freddie (despite saying he cannot carry a tune in a bucket, John can get a few low humming notes right for backup). Creating something magical, John feels it. 

He doesn't know how to articulate his feelings, what else is new? But when they all gasp to a stop and eat some sandwiches he procures from the fireman mess hall, and talk of doing something more, maybe a concert last day onboard. And before that, exploring some other part of the ship - the Turkish baths are suggested - John thinks mayhap they all feel something of this too.

This odd little glow that is niggling at the back of his brain and telling him, somehow, that the four of them belong together.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This corresponds to chapter 11 of "To Tell You When I Find You" by quirkysubject
> 
> This is a very introspective look at what was happening, both from John's and Brian's POV. I hope you liked it
> 
> *Here is a [link](https://youtu.be/CSagRRh07DI) to a version of the song I had John and Brian play together first thing. Somehow seemed like something John would enjoy due to his love of disco
> 
> And Brian is feeling down yet again, don't worry Brian, what your song needs is another language and Queen! And all you need are some sweet ministrations from John :)
> 
> Next chapter is the baths, the turbine engines, and... Well it is getting late
> 
> Comments appreciated <3


	13. Chapter 13

John turns on the heating system for the Turkish baths, which is useful for the moment Brian does a running swan dive into the freezing saltwater pool, after they'd been in the sweating room first off, steaming themselves up like lobsters or summing of that sort. John wouldn't know, he has never eaten lobster - and talked out all the variations of a possible group name for them to play under. The no longer barbershop quartet, as he'd ruined it by not being able to sing; but name choices get wilder and wilder until thank goodness the pool is suggested.

As Brian does his dive Roger comes up behind John, who is staring - the execution was excellent, mind, and honestly he had no comprehension that Brian was going to do that, just strip down to pants and point his arms over his head for a dive, going under with nary a ripple.

John, on the other hand, goes into the water with an enormous splash as he is grabbed around the head and chest by Roger. 

"Ouf! That's bloody cold!" He yelps as he comes back up, wriggling and ducking again to grab at Roger's legs under water, his eyes stinging from the salt as he opens them. Wraps himself around Roger's thighs and drives the blond - there is just enough height difference between them for John to catch a standing position with his toes and keep Roger down - into the depths before he's up and gasping as Brian cuts through the water with an incredible stroke. "You, that was -" He can't quite articulate a coherent thought, and Roger grabs and dunks him again just after, saving John trouble. Brian shakes his head, sighing at the pair of them, all flailing limbs and sodden hair, whilst Freddie sits on the side of the pool, legs dangling down. 

"Roger has apparently decided to play some pool rugby - oh let him up, Rog," the tallest says, shaking out his hair as he strikes out for the side of the pool to come up next to Freddie. The latter jumps a bit. "You swim, Fred?" Brian asks now.

Freddie's lips twitch at the use of the nickname, but he also hunches down as though ashamed. Brian can relate to that very strongly. "Haven't had occasion for it here -" he chokes on words.

"...You said the conversation was trite when upper class comes in, yeah?" Brian's tone of voice is sweet as he pushes back sopping curls. "I imagine that wouldn't make it a great occasion for you to choose to come." He offers a slight smile, lips twisting as the both of them look first at each other and then to Roger and John, who talk animatedly about something unknown to anyone save themselves. A far cry from their original interaction. "I do hope we're doing alright." 

A full smile brightens Freddie's face as he hears Roger let out a peal of laughter in response to one from John. "Oh, yes, darling. This is wonderful, much more cheerfulness around for certain." At that, Freddie sucks in a breath through his nose, catching it and clamping lips shut over top of his teeth, as if that single sweet little word could undo him, somehow. He twists away, and that makes a burst of sorrow shoot through Brian. If one must tread so carefully as a part of the upper class, is one really all that privileged? He wonders this, but smiles and puts a hand on top of Freddie's, stroking his skin lightly instead of asking such a question that would likely bring things down. Which he desperately does not wish to do.

And so all Brian says in response, fervently, is "I'm glad."

***

Eventually John has to bow out - his shift starts soon, he said, and they've got to remember to turn off the heating in the baths if anyone's staying longer. "I've got to check turbines and tanks tonight," he says, "...if anyone wants to see how one 'a those works."

Brian is so ecstatic to see such things he fumbles into his clothes.

"Engines stretch up three decks," John says as he walks to shift with Brian along. "Rise up from H to F and G. There are six boiler rooms for the twenty-nine we've got, and the turbines pump like mad." He takes the other through the engine room aft and then moves forward through each of the boiler rooms, nodding at the trimmers and firemen, explaining what they do. Gesticulating with his hands, mobile features alight as he expounds upon every technical marvel of the _Titanic_ "She is such a ship, and erm, I'm still learning, 'a course, you know, but the power of the dampers in each boiler to keep lights and phones and every piece of electrical wiring aboard running, down to the minutiae, it's..." John's eyes sparkle, almost glowing in the light of the boilers. And due to something else, Brian thinks.

"Incredible," Brian pauses on the catwalk next to John, hands curling around the railing, awestruck in the face of so much power and invigorated by witnessing John's awe - a trifle selfishly, because he has never known anyone else to get so invigorated by and invested in something - it has always been Brian's territory to go off mooning over music or photography or stars. And then for him to be told by Roger _"Brian, you're drooling there, mate,"_ or he's told to shut up. Fondly, of course, because even as Rog rolls his eyes and groans he listens, sometimes. It is simply that he has never seemed to fully understand the depth of Brian's excitement. Bri had tried to articulate it as being akin to Roger's love of art, only for his best mate to snort and tell him not to hurt himself.

So this, this. Here Brian is listening to this quiet man, his particular burr intermixed with giggles - at himself, or in excitement. Either way it is fantastically endearing, and Brian has grown mostly dry after their stint in the baths besides from standing in the heat near the rising steam from the boilers. He laments the loss of his hair oil yet again as in the heat his curls bounce and frizz and seem to grow even larger, of course they would. Ergh. Pale fingers flutter around and above the crown of Brian's head almost automatically as he listens. "The sheer amount of power and the fact every one of us spends eight hours at once to help make her run. Well." 

John's eyes are wide, shining like the stars as he turns to look at Brian, who is taking in everything, drinking in the words with his eyes glued to John's face. It makes a lump come to the throat of the young engineer, he doesn't know quite what to say. Other members of crew who work with him tease John for being dumb, simple, damn near mute. But that's all right, it's just their way. Rough seafaring humour. And they know he does his work, which is all that matters. 

But Brian... John has never met someone so eager to talk about what he loves and what inspires him; more than that, for him to listen to John rattle off the smallest details of his day working in the bowels of a steamship, engineering this fine vehicle to port. It is an incredible feeling to be really listened to and truly heard. He loves Brian for that, which seems ridiculous, downright odd - and even more absurd would it be to follow the impulse to tell him that. So John tamps down the warm lightness in his body that makes him yearn to do a two-step for joy, and adds "So, erm. Want to head through to Boiler Room Six? That's the last of these, then there's collier and cargo hold before the bow." 

He leads the way down subsequent to Brian's affirmation, and Brian begins to talk of how he loves to learn, yet going --or wanting to go-- to school for mathematics is nothing compared to the calculations engineers must do during this sort of work, surely, but it truly fascinates him nonetheless. They end up stepping through the watertight doors and nodding to Fred Barrett, head fireman before heading down the stairs to John's post. Before he gets to his place, Brian reaches out and hesitates before wrapping an arm quickly round John's shoulders. The engineer wonders if he smells of smoke or grease or simply of the stale air down here, but if so, the other does not seem to mind - in fact, he pulls John closer, resting their bodies together a long moment.

"Thank you, John," he speaks, his voice sounding soft over the roar of the boilers and hiss of steam. 

John cocks his head, looks up at Brian, lips a-twitch. "What're you thanking me for?"

"For -" Befriending him. Joining up with a madcap little band on a whim, listening to rambles and understanding Brian's thoughts. Or indulging his passions, at the least. _I feel...heard, with you._ "For showing me all this," he says instead. "Allowing me into your world and explaining it."

"Only some of it," John jokes back drily "I'm ever so chatty, y'know. But I figure you'd get bored." Brian laughs aloud, a barking sound that echoes, after which he instantly claps a hand across his mouth, as though worried by the amount of sound he has produced. 

"Sorry, Deacy," he gasps out, and John lifts his eyebrows, lower lip puffing out in easy quiet cheekiness even as he can hardly stop a smile in response to Brian giving him a nickname.

"You're going to apologise for that, really, Bri?" He shakes his head, teeth flashing in a smile that he cannot hold back any longer as he grips the other's wrist. "We don't get enough laughter down here. Well, I don't." 

There is something in his eyes, then; something that makes Brian shift closer to him, look down as his features soften with tenderness. He draws in a slow breath, eyebrows coming together as he reaches out a hand. 

"John, I -"

And that is when the sliding shift of a turn precedes a deep groan and strange low thudding screech along the starboard side of the ship. Many of those in the room nearly leave their feet, John crashes into Brian, clutching at him, and a roaring rush of water - yes, water - crashes over the bulkheads from the hull and begins pouring in. 

The only thought now pounding in Brian's brain, besides recognition that something must have severely damaged the hull to cause seawater to pour in such a torrent, as nothing else could, is

_They said this ship was nigh unsinkable._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> First part of this chapter corresponds to quirkysubject's Chapter 13, wherein I desired to include some Freddie and Brian bonding, as well as Roger with John. Love their dynamics :)  
> I also just find Brian and John too cute, save me (and I've made Bri quite the hugger in this story; I see him as being a bit starved for physical affection, sweet man)
> 
> *Brian's swan dive is a nod to the one he executed masterfully in the extended Queen music video for "One Vision".
> 
> And then....
> 
> Comments appreciated <3


	14. Chapter 14

**2340 hours. Just before 11:40 pm, April 14. Lookout post.**

It is a quiet night over the ocean, the moon is not in sight but there are many stars in the sky. The darkness is juxtaposed with them, but something darker than the darkness looms. And at just before 11:40 Frederick Fleet, in his lookout perch far abovedecks, watch nearly complete, sees that something looming out of water smooth as silvered mirror glass in the first class salon. He rings the bell thrice to signal danger and phones down to the bridge: "'Ware iceberg, right ahead!"

"Thank you," is the strangely distant, detached though courteous reply, and as the bridge signs off, Fleet thinks on what he'd joked to Fireman Barrett before; it's definitely his arse up here right now.

Ship is turned, and the jarring thud of the first six compartments being torn open along the hull by an enormous iceberg is believed by several stewards, who've dealt with such incidents, as a propeller breaking off and dropping. "She'll be headed to Belfast then," one said to another cheerfully, as such is where repairs to ships are made in the United Kingdom. It's a lively port too, loads of nightlife.

Typical quiet of the sea thus far is broken by a jolt, and John Jacob Astor has just been telling his wife to look at what's inside a life vest "it's astounding these things are meant to help us, my dearest, on a ship that cannot sink!" 

**Boiler Room 6. 11:40.**

In the boiler room, though there ought to be no waves and definitely no shore, "We've run aground!" Is shouted and there is confusion and screams as men pick themselves up and try to keep their feet whilst others are dragged underwater, their bodies writhing and fighting only to be sucked into the sea. 

Until Fred Barrett's voice roars at everyone in Boiler Room Six: "GET YOUR ARSES TO FIVE, NOW! MOVE! CLOSING DOORS! Let's go, Hesketh!" He sails through after the headlong rush of hands clutching arms and backs and others' hands, throwing everyone ahead of him along with the head engineer in the room on a wash of icy water. The mad thought of some salvation by having struck and run aground on land is dispelled as the ship moves, water continuing to pour inside her.

"We've struck an iceberg, lads," a heavy voice says. "Heads up, arses down, work those boilers - comin' through!" 

A collier picks himself up as another stares despondently at an overturned cup of soup he had set down to cool a little. All the men from Six have instantly rushed to aid those hard at work in Five to keep the electricity and steam power working, have to keep the lights on. Closing the watertight doors in one compartment is nowhere near enough, they have to keep containing, but a deluge is already rising beyond the doors far too quickly. 

"Put your backs to boiling, boys, we've got to trim those fires down! Bell will get up to find Andrews."

There's a burst of words:

"Andrews likely knows, or will."

"Wot's he gonna do 'bout it, hey?"

"Think we'll get overtime for this, fellows?"

"Wouldn't put me money on it!" Barrett bellows. "White Star is certain this gal can't sink."

"Cor, not on yer life -"

"She's listin', sure, nothin' else -"

As water swirls over the bulkheads and into Boiler Room Five, another voice calls out "God Himself could not sink this ship!"

"...Well someone had better tell God," a coal trimmer says after a beat, his face blackened and shining in the light of the boiler which they call the fires of Hell "- because He's doing His bloody best."

***

Seawater roars through a break in the hull and into the boiler room now, causing shorts and hissing from the fires. John's hand clamps onto Brian's arm and sleeve as the water roars around them. "Brian," he says, or rather shouts into the other's ear over the sounds of thousands of liters of water roiling into the ship, this glorious ship - he sees crewmates beckoning and tugs. "BRIAN!" John's fingers are ice as he takes hold of the taller man's chin and forces him to look. "Through the door, run," and Brian's dazed eyes grow horrified as he grips John's hand and runs, half floats through. But John isn't finished shoving him, after the feeling like daggers of ice around their legs, turning to a numbness that saps all feeling, the hollow boom of the watertight door shakes thought free. "Bri, you've got to go - get out of here right now, and take anyone you can find on the decks up with you! We - I've got to stay here and fix this."

Fix this? Brian stares at the frigid drops plastering John's soft hair to his head, cascading over his coveralls in a spray from the bulkheads. As he prepares to...what? Dive into that water to repair whatever damage there is to the ship? Build up the boilers to have a war between ice and fire, if it was an iceberg in fact that struck them? Brian's long arm shoots out and he grabs John's shoulder - in a bruising grip, perhaps, he'll feel sorry for it later. Now, he feels helpless and desperate, but he can't let John go.

"John, no - there's too much water coming in, it's - you will _die_ down here!"

John gazes up at Brian, his countenance softening at the sight of the desperation in the other man's eyes. His friend. He lifts his hand to catch hold of Brian's face and runs his thumb across one sharp cheek. "...But you won't. You are not meant to die today, Brian May."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> *It's said Frederick Fleet was given a "distant but courteous" thank you from the bridge when he warned them of the ice
> 
> *John Jacob Astor, richest man on the ship, (and quite possibly in the world at that time) did in fact cut his life vest open to show his wife what was inside. No idea why that was a thought in his head
> 
> *Stewards believed the Titanic lost a propeller, a minor mishap that would dictate the need to go to Belfast after dropping passengers in New York
> 
> *Hesketh and Barrett were the two men who instantly closed the watertight doors between Boiler Rooms 5 and 6, which bought the ship precious minutes.
> 
> Things are popping right off! Comments appreciated <3


	15. Chapter 15

"Close the dampers on those boilers!" Is the roar from Engineer Hesketh, and John leaps to action as he hears it.

"No - mate," Brian gasps out. "I'm not going if you're not going."

John's eyes flash up at him. "Will 'a not listen!" His uniquely strong accent grows even stronger at that but Brian's jaw looks clenched as he continues to clutch on. Shakes his head. Stubborn and stalwart.

"No."

With a growl of frustration and a glance round to locate a spot that is at least somewhat safe, for now, "Go up to join the officers, at least," John nods to the metal walk high in the space itself, above the boilers. The one they'd walked on minutes ago - lord, had it only been that long? He shakes himself in order to stay in the present. "They've got to get in touch with the bridge, y'know, and Chief Engineer Bell will leave to find the ship's architect. Go up with him. Please."

As if on cue there is a sharp smacking sound as in more water roars, and Brian hears a sailor battling the sound with his voice, calling up to the bridge: "Ship's taking on water, tell the captain and close the doors, ye bastards! No I'm NOT taking the bloody mick. We'll be keeping lights on for you lot! -Stop those wires shorting out, lads!" 

"That's my cue," John offers up a smile. How he can be calm just now, Brian doesn't know. Other men are winching up chains and tightening the dampers of the boilers, stoking their fires as in even more water pours.

John's hands shake a mite now as he steps away and shoves at Brian's thin side, pushing him towards the stairs up to the boiler operation catwalk. " _Climb,_ Brian. For God's sake, man!"

"John -" throwing every caution aft as he is pretty certain that he will not see tomorrow, no matter what the other says, Brian grabs John by his slim waist and pulls the shorter man to him, pressing him into his chest as he dips his head and his lips are searing as he fastens them on John's - tasting the salt of sweat and possibly tears. The latter would be tears from his own eyes, he's certain. He feels his throat closing as he thinks of this brave young man, of all of these astounding people doing their duties in the face of death in this all-too-sinkable ship. Still they do their work.

John gasps into Brian's kiss, his hand tangling in the other man's unruly curls as he is bent back just a bit. Those long teeth of Brian's catch John's lower lip as Bri releases him with so much in those deep sensitive hazel eyes of his. John gulps, speechless as Brian whispers "Godspeed" and "bless you" - he didn't know Brian was religious, but supposes this moment could make a believer out of anyone; or at the very least provide some small sense of comfort. 

He can't be sure, all John knows is that he is tongue-tied as he watches Brian leap, swinging himself up to the stairs and struts. That dark hair and slim back, those lanky graceful limbs going up towards the officers so Brian can ask if they need his help. Always wanting to help, the sweet decent-hearted man.... That is the last John sees of him as Brian clambers up to the catwalk and John down to the boilers to try and keep this ship afloat.

***

**0015 hundred hours. 12:15 am, April 15. Marconi Suite.**

Jack Phillips, senior communications officer and radio operator, looks to Harold Bride as his assistant operator hands him another telegram to transcribe about a passenger looking forward to being in New York with their family. Neither of the two men had felt the little shudder thirty or so minutes before, though something made Harold come in early to assist Jack before his offical shift was set to begin at 2 am. It is just now that their captain comes into the suite after rapping smartly on the door. Both snap to a salute.

"At ease, men." Captain Smith looks tired, more like his sixty-two years now than any previous instances would suggest. In fact, he seems like an old, old man. "We have hit an iceberg. You'll need to give out our position and heading. Water is coming in. You will send distress signals until this room takes on water and then you will haul arse to the Boat Deck, understand?"

Harold and Jack look at each other and then at Smith. "Aye, sir."

"Good lads." The silver-haired seaman seems to be about to say something else, but pauses before "Just get the word out to whomever is around. God help us." He finishes, and out of a closet hands two life vests to Bride. "There you are," drawing up his head and stance, the captain utters "Gentlemen, I shall see to my ship," and heads off. 

Phillips sucks in air and turns back to the apparatus. "Well, Harold. We are in it." He cuts off his last telegram mid-sentence.

"Let's get cracking, shall we?"

CQD THIS IS TITANIC> He inputs six times, indicating that the ship is in distress. POSITION 41.44N 50.24W.

Seems as though only one in three are getting through as he sends their location again.

COME AT ONCE. HAVE STRUCK A BERG.

RECEIVED> The ship _Mount Temple_ responds. 

CQD THIS IS TITANIC.> Phillips sends out again, the pitch of the Morse Code ringing in his ears already.

ATTENTION ALL STATIONS. THIS IS MOUNT TEMPLE. TITANIC REQUIRES ASSISTANCE. CANNOT HEAR ME. GIVES POSITION.

**12:18 am**

Cape Race, the head wireless station in Cape Cod, catches and begins sending on distress signals to other ships. The ship _Ypiranga_ takes up the call and sends a message out as well, indicating _Titanic's_ distress and her position.

**12:25 am**

_Carpathia_ to _Titanic_ DO YOU KNOW THAT CAPE COD IS SENDING A BATCH OF MESSAGES FOR YOU?

 _Titanic_ to _Carpathia_ COME AT ONCE. WE HAVE STRUCK A BERG. IT'S A CQD OLD MAN. POSITION 41.46N 50.14W

SHALL I TELL MY CAPTAIN? DO YOU REQUIRE ASSISTANCE?

YES. COME QUICK.  
CQD REQUIRE ASSISTANCE. CORRECTED POSITION 41.46N 50.14W. STRUCK ICEBERG. CQD.

Cape Race takes up the call again to indicate _Titanic's_ position and her distress, and the ship _Burma_ contacts _Titanic_ for the ship's position.

REQUIRE IMMEDIATE ASSISTANCE. WE HAVE COLLISION WITH AN ICEBERG. SINKING. CAN HEAR NOTHING FOR NOISE OF STEAM. > Jack Phillips sends this message upwards of fifteen times, as the hiss of steam throughout the ship due to her damage and the work still being done is so loud neither he nor Harold can make out the beeps of Morse Code coming over the wireless. 

"...Ship really is going down, isn't she, Jack?"

"I'm afraid so, Harry."

It is now 12:30 am.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> *This is as close to the actual timetable as I can figure based on the timetable in Walter Lord's _A Night to Remember_ along with an audial and visual transcript of the wireless transmissions that I located on YouTube. Apparently the signal was not only weak but the noise from steam added to the radio operators not being able to read responses from other ships
> 
> CQD is Morse Code for Attention to All Stations, Distress
> 
> Let's hope Brian gets to chief electrician Bell!
> 
> How goes it out there? Comments appreciated <3


	16. Chapter 16

**12:30. First Class Deck.**

The captain has seen several persons milling around deck and in the hallways, and encourages those he sees to put on clothes and life vests before taking in the air outside. Some scoff or chuckle at the words, thinking their captain is having a laugh, but Mrs Bishop traverses downward two decks to take her husband's vest to him in the Stateroom so that they might go on deck together. Something in Captain Smith's eyes told her to go quickly and without fuss.

People are in varying states of dress as the stewards and other crew members rouse them. Some ladies are in double-breasted velvet gowns, others in nightdresses or ankle-length woollen driving coats. Some of the men do not even bother to lace their shoes. A young girl has a blanket tented around her shoulders.

Third class, decks below, has single men and single women berthed on opposite ends of the ship. Soon as they are roused, the men go to meet the women. A Swiss girl and her roommate go with the young man who had caught her eye earlier that afternoon, both girls given life jackets and told to hurry. A young man who is chaperoning his friend's sixteen-year-old daughter to Minnesota is in a state as he rushes through the corridors to find her, eventually doing so by the main steerage E Deck hallway. As the twenty-six-year old fellow takes the teenager's arm, Minnesota feels incredibly far away.

They head to the poop deck and crowd to the bow and stern of the ship. Second class is a bit aft, First holds the centre. There are jokes in the air of missing early-morning appointments to play squash, but what those pervading the jollity on the whole do not know, is that water is up to the ceiling of the squash courts.

***

In Boiler Room Five, Brian hears shouts and clanging, the raised voices in all the dialects of the crew buckling down to do their duties with a will. He ends up on the catwalk, slipping in the stream of icy water, pushing his hair out of his eyes. A bearded officer is still calling to the bridge. "Blast, I can't get through, and they don't even bloody BELIEVE us, won't pack the lifeboats full-on, it's twelve or so top shelfers heading out whiles the rest fend for themselves."

"Ah get on with that!" another worker cries, seemingly angry, and Brian's heart lurches. He might have been one of those, Imperial educated, Chrissie on his arm, but he is surprised to find he feels no agonising clench inside when he thinks of her or what could have been. He is glad to be here now, to see a pair of crinkled green-grey eyes and hear a soft voice telling him firmly that this is not his day to die. And for once, he finds that he agrees. 

With that, Brian May squares his shoulders and swings up at last to the officer and says "I can carry a message to the bridge if you'd like, sir."

Joseph Bell has worked on every sort of White Star ship up to this, and had watched those turbines be hauled into the _Titanic_ himself. He wastes no time on pleasantries but calls out to the engineers "Keep her steady, men!" He has to get in touch with Andrews as well as the bridge. 

"Aye sir! Stabilising output, keeping up the lights - oi I need blokes down 'ere to check on the tanks - Shep, Deaks, Herb, Bill, c'mon!" Brian's eyes catch on movement and he sees the wiry frame of John heading along with others - including the broad back of Bill the coal trimmer - ducking into what is apparently an electrical compartment. Brian feels an awful foreboding, heaviness in his limbs as John disappears from sight.

"Shut down the cylindrical drain valves, we can't risk them blowing," Bell says, and Fireman Barrett comes barrelling up the stairs. 

"Doors, doors, close the doors, right we've got four shuttin' off and she's taking water up ahead - oi!" Brian and Bell have headed along to exit the boiler room. The chief engineer had taken Brian's elbow and told him they would need to reach the engine room and then upwards. "Doors have to stay shut," Barrett snaps, slamming one closed that Bell, almost absently, opens. Barrett then beckons to a trail of rings hammered into an alcove of the main space, heading upwards. "Come with me through the hatch, sir, come on!"

As they climb, Bell first after Barrett, Brian following - he hears about the water that is gushing into Boiler Room Five now "... from a tear less'n a metre long," the fireman had been next to the watertight doors and bulkheads, and sighted the leak, he told them. If less than a metre can cause water to fill the entire space, that's two hundred thirty tonnes. Reversibles can use the pumps to siphon out some water, which is where John has gone to, but - 

Brian feels his breaths heaving, coming shorter and faster as he hears the order called to engage all pumps, and for someone to go to Boiler Six and report back.

Suddenly Brian sways and arms are under his, hauling him through a ceiling hatch before smartly closing it up again, and a mustachioed face is staring into Brian's. Calling to him through the roaring in Bri's ears. "Sailor, what's your name?"

"I - I'm Brian," he gasps. "Brian May. And I'm not a - I mean, me dad's a shipbuilder, but. I'm from third class," he speaks lamely, hauling in air. "just - I'm friends with John Deacon, one of your engineers."

"And you're down here with us so you need to stay alert," the other snaps. "I'm Bell, and here I am heading up multiple decks to speak to the architect of this ship and inform him of what is happening, and you had bloody well be with me, May, or I'll send you back to the boiler room to keep lights on or stop the leakage with your body. And lose precious bloody time along the way, I might add. I don't need deadweight. Understood?" Brian's eyes are huge. "We've got to get word up decks to prepare for everyone else to make it out, including our lads below. And to do that we've got to keep our heads. Now." Clapping a hand on Brian's shoulder, "have you got your head on, Brian?"

Breathing, letting the air steady his hands and telling himself he has to do this. He must be calm. For John, and he's got to find Roger, somehow, if...oh, Roger. And Freddie too. He really hopes they'd gotten out of the baths by now. But wherever they are, he's with a man who has a mission, and Brian is not going to be the reason it doesn't work. So he straightens his spine and looks into the officer's eyes. "Yes, yes sir, I have."

"Good." With a sharp nod and a slap in the back, the chief engineer resumes climbing after the head fireman, who holds open another hatch for them. "Let's go speak to Mr Andrews about his marvel of a ship."

***

**12:32 am. Marconi Suite.**

The ship _Caronia_ sends a message to all other ships, and then in particular to the _Baltic_ which is close to them. CQD TITANIC STRUCK ICEBERG, REQUIRE IMMEDIATE ASSISTANCE.

 _Mount Temple_ responds to the previous call that Phillips made. OUR CAPTAIN REVERSES SHIP. WE ARE ABOUT 50 MILES OFF.

**12:34 am**

_SS Frankfurt_ , first to respond initially nearly twenty minutes prior, sends their position, which is incredibly close: 39.47N 50.10W. Jack asks if they are coming, and the other ship replies WHAT IS THE MATTER WITH YOU?

Pinching his nose and squeezing his eyes shut, Phillips shakes out his hands with a sigh and quickly reiterates WE HAVE STRUCK AN ICEBERG AND ARE SINKING. PLEASE TELL CAPTAIN TO COME.

OK WILL TELL THE BRIDGE RIGHT AWAY.

OK. YES QUICK.

Harold from his position next to Jack suggests speaking to the _Carpathia_ again. "I know her operator, he's a mate of mine, he's got a good head, knows what's going on."

Jack nods. It is worth every shot they have. He transmits directly to that ship. WE REQUIRE IMMEDIATE ASSISTANCE.

OLD MAN WE ARE 58 MILES OFF.

ALRIGHT OLD MAN. 

The _Olympic, Titanic's_ sister ship from the White Star line, sends a service message that the operators do not receive. DON'T YOU HEAR OLYMPIC CALLING YOU? > _Carpathia_ asks.

NO OLD MAN I CAN'T READ HIM FOR RUSH OF AIR AND NOISE OF STEAM.

The first lifeboat, number seven, is launched off the starboard side. Harold notes its descent from the window, near their apparatus operations room as the _Carpathia_ sends PUTTING ABOUT AND HEADING FOR YOU. EXPECT TO ARRIVE IN FOUR HOURS.

RECEIVED THANKS OLD MAN

Yet though it is a relief one ship will come, that is not near enough, for theirs is swiftly sinking. 

Jack sends another Morse line, directly to their sister ship after two more lifeboats are lowered. He tells Harold to get into his clothes, and Harold brings an overcoat to wrap around Jack, as the operating room is very cold.

**12:45 am**

SOS CQD SOS THIS IS TITANIC WE HAVE STRUCK ICEBERG. SINKING FAST. COME TO OUR ASSISTANCE.

Water is rising like mad up through the decks now and the operators grow frantic, sending information to every possible ship they have inventory of responding to their calls before. _Cape Race, Caronia, Baltic,_ and _Mount Temple_ all add their voices to transmit the _Titanic's_ continued (and worsening) distress. 

**0100 hours, April 15. 1 am**

Lifeboat Eight is sent off-ship and Phillips and Bride are sending transmissions to ships they've never contacted before. Cape Race sends transmissions as well, backing up the messages. "The other ships must not be reading us, sir," Harold says. 

Jack grits his teeth, fingers beginning to smart and throb from the force and amount of repetitive pounding he is performing of code into their apparatus. "Then we'll call out again." _Until the ocean overtakes us, we aren't leaving._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> *Information about what passengers are wearing and the third class young man and his friend going to Minnesota taken from Walter Lord's _A Night to Remember_.
> 
> *Chief Engineer Joseph Bell did head up via hatches through the ship to locate and speak to Mr Andrews
> 
> *Harold Bride was in fact friends with the radio operator on the _Carpathia_. "Old man" is friendly slang, like mate or pal
> 
> I did my best to describe what it is that pumps did, I'm not an electrical engineer so I've honestly no idea how they are considered electrical.
> 
> Times are a bit in tandem - Brian and Bell are moving at the same time as Jack and Harold are sending and receiving calls
> 
> Comments and reactions appreciated <3


	17. Chapter 17

**_Titanic's_ bridge. Some time prior to 1 am. 15 April**

"Do you think the ship is seriously damaged?" 

That question is put to Captain Smith, and hating the truth it is his duty to divulge (if only to the heads of the ship line and those who require it) nevertheless the captain of the _RMS Titanic_ speaks five fateful words.

"I am afraid she is."

Andrews had been absorbed in taking, jotting down notes: needful things for the future, such as the colour of pebble dashing on the promenade deck, trouble with the hot press in the galley, and so on. He had not noticed the jarring of the ship at 11:40, in fact did not take note until called to the bridge after. Yet the sight of the Captain's facial expression shook him, enough to set them both on instantaneous rounds down crew stairwells to find water pouring into the mail room and rising through the squash courts.

The pair convene with passengers on A Deck and, as are many other members of the crew, attempt to remain calm and cheery so as not to cause a panic. On the other side of the fence, so to speak, is the ship's surgeon who tells a doting wife about her sick husband "Trunks are floating around the hold, so you may as well go out on deck rather than remaining in bed."

Steerage passengers carrying luggage with them push down the central E Deck corridor - known as Park Avenue or Scotland Road, depending on which members of the crew one asks. Water is fourteen feet above keel level everywhere in the first five compartments of the ship; save Boiler Room Five, which still holds out, for now.

***

John works the pumps as hard as he can, along with the little knot of engineers, fellow electricians, and trimmers who had come with him into the fifth electrical compartment. The engines have been turned off, a series of hollow booms preceding silence, and "...Never thought that sound would be a comfort til it's gone," one engineer says.

"Well we've still got some comfort left - c'n bring up light power 'long the corridors, lads."

"Lights shorting on tanks for boilers six, five, four," John pushes up the tank levers, checking their pressure.

"That can't be right!" The head electrician protests, coming up beside him. But checking the air pressure in the tanks shows proof.

"...Blimey, it is."

"They close up all the doors yet, damn it?"

"Water's still comin' in!"

John feels warm and set inside, still, despite the icy water and the rapid hissing of air out of the tanks. The clang of metal and roaring of the boilers remains, and the shouts of men in manifold dialects soothes him, lets him know they're all still here to do what they must do. He thinks of Brian looking into his eyes, of the feeling of Bri wishing him well to do this duty. His duty to this ship is to serve the souls aboard her, and by God he will keep the old girl running as long as he is able; until every last bit of her slides into the sea.

***

As soon as Andrews meets with Bell in the D Deck corridor, after he has spoken to Smith and the captain continues rounds with his officers in tow to speak to passengers, a rundown of the ship's timeline before total sinkage is in order. Andrews grabs Bell by the arm of his jacket, formal greetings and pleasantries be damned. They haven't the time for that.

"What is it, sir? What've we got?" The lead engineer inquires.

"I'd say she has an hour, hour and a half in her from the time of impact. When did she hit the iceberg? Midnight?" 

"Twenty minutes to midnight actually, sir." 

"Right, alright, well, look," Thomas Andrews sharply pulls the chief engineer into his quarters and yanks out a copy of the ship's plans, one of several that he keeps. Face set, he unrolls them onto his berth table, putting a cup of coffee on a corner and holding the catty-cornered one with his arm. "We can handle water going through here, here, here - into compartments A, B, C, and D. If water is in from one to four of those compartments, the ship will still float. But when the ocean gets to E..." Andrews taps his knuckle on the fifth compartment back from the bow, glancing up at Brian and Bell, as Barrett had made his farewells and returned to the boiler room after leading them up. "Then and there the noose is around her neck, gentlemen."

It is Bell's eyes that now widen. He had made it to Mr Andrews, to meet the man in the halls and had thought to hear that surely, they will be all right. This ship cannot sink. Yet here it's being said... The architect pulls Bell outside his cabin again, with urgency in his eyes in response to the disbelief in the engineer's own. "Listen," Andrews goes to a hatch and lifts it. "Do you feel that?" It is air, warm, being pushed up from below. "The air tanks are being forced to empty by virtue of the incredible amount of water pressure."

"We've got men in Boiler Room Five working on them," Bell says. "Isn't that right, Bar - Brian?" He asks of anyone who is there to say, Brian can tell that; from panic, the need to have a second voice to back him up. It is the first time Andrews really seems to look and recognise him.

Brian swallows and nods from behind the pair, where he is standing. "Yes sir, they've put themselves to the tanks and boilers."

The look in the architect's eyes is one Brian cannot mistake. He sees one like it often enough in the mirror - the warm appreciation for other people, along with the melancholic certainty their efforts cannot stem the literal tide here, as it were. Andrews shakes his head then, voice pained. "She's living on borrowed time. We've less than thirty minutes, like as not." He closes the hatch and straightens up, but not before more air whooshes out and the ship makes a low sound.

"She's sighing," the lead engineer says, adding almost tenderly as he rests his hand upon the wall "Steady, old girl."

Old girl, he calls her, with so much affection, and yet halfway through her maiden voyage she is going down. The tragic, cosmic irony of it all - the ship that could not sink, heading to the bottom of the sea inexorably as time ticks on. Carrying the worth of a small town aboard her, people from all across the world. They are sharing in a dream.

A dream that has now become a nightmare.

Andrews' next words come as if he has heard some of Brian's thoughts. "I'm sorry," he says, eyes flickering from Bell to linger on Brian. "I wish I had built you a stronger ship." 

"Engines are off," Bell says. "she'll be cycling through emergency power soon, long as our boys can stay down there. We've still got tricks up our sleeves, this isn't over yet." He claps the architect on the shoulder, attempting to remain cheerful. 

"I only hope that Phillips has been able to send out word," Andrews soberly replies.

**Marconi Suite. 1:03 am**

Jack Phillips is sending messages to ships he has not spoken to before as Cape Race adds to them, and multiple ships return messages until the signal jams, sounding with naught but static for two minutes that seem to last an eternity.

And then the _Carpathia_ sends WE ARE COMING YOUR WAY COMING AT FULL SPEED FIFTEEN KNOTS >

RECEIVED, Phillips responds.

As two more lifeboats are launched, one from each side of the ship, the wireless signals jam again.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> *The wireless signals did start jamming just after 1 am because of the amount of audial traffic taking place via the apparatus
> 
> *According to _A Night to Remember_ Thomas Andrews calmly explained the state of the ship after making rounds with the captain and seeing ascent of the water himself
> 
> *The tanks were shutting down, and the water pressure cut off air to them, making the ship sink faster than it had been
> 
> Jeez this is intense, I'm working out the timeline as best I can for these next few chapters! 
> 
> Comments appreciated <3


	18. Chapter 18

**Upper Class Decks, amidships. 1:10 am.**

"Women and children will be unloaded first," Thomas Andrews now outlines the methods of egress from the ship, tone calm and even but growing sharper as he adds "Once enough lifeboats have been filled, though, there should be room for the men. And if not, get a floatation device - a deck chair, a bedstead, anything. Go on, Brian, back to your cabin - get your life vest and clothes to keep you warm, and then head up to the aft deck."

"What about -" _John,_ Brian's mind screams out. And Roger, the rash fool, though he had been with Freddie so surely they both have made it up to the first class area already. Yet what of Cora, and her father, and Sven and Digs, his and Rog's Swedish roommates? What of his lovely background singers from South America, or the group of Frenchmen Roger had taken a liking to? Not to mention Bill the coal trimmer, and all the firemen and electricians and engineers still working steadfastly with John in the hold, ensuring the lights do not go out. An ache seizes up Brian's chest, constricting around his heart. "I can't go up, not when so many are still down here!" He bursts out. 

He hears John's words from earlier pounding through his head again, that he is not meant to die; but then as if in a strange echo of Mr Andrews' urgings, Brian hears a steward just down the hall saying "Please take this life jacket and head out on deck, ma'am."

He is speaking to a stout older lady in good clothes. She appears somehow familiar to Brian, as does the fellow next to her, whom she gazes at. "May my husband not have one too?" She asks.

"Ida, liebling," the man says to her "I'll be all right. You must go."

"Not without you," she looks sharply at the steward. "He comes if I come."

The young man is visibly flustered. He surely did not expect a lady to refuse the ability to be rescued, just as no one aboard expected the necessity of leaving behind a sinking ship. "It's women and children out to the lifeboats at this time, madam. Please, you must come." He puts out his hand to her, and Ida looks from him back to her husband again. 

"Ida...," His tone of voice is pleading, his eyes gentle. 

She presses her lips together and then says "We have been together more than forty years, raised six children. Made our fortune. No, young man." She puts her vest back into the steward's hand. "I won't go without him. We have lived together, so we'll die together." She wraps her arms around her husband's chest, and the young man swears.

"Damn it, sir, will you not make her go?"

Nudging at her husband "Well, Isidor," Ida cocks her head a bit, almost with cheek. "Tell him."

"Sir!" The steward's voice cracks. He has his orders, to get every first class lady and child up and out, and here is this woman, just...not having it. There is no protocol for this, unless her husband is to dissuade her. 

Yet lifting his wrinkled hand to his wife's face, something passes between the two and even as his craggy face crinkles in anguish, it is smoothed out after by love. "It is not in me to force her to go," Isidor says firmly, wrapping his arms around his wife and drawing her close in a lingering embrace. "I love you, my darling," he says to her, and Brian feels his eyes begin to burn with tears - seeing this, and recognising the pair of them as the lovely pair of dancers in their own little world at the third class party second night on ship. Not to mention he saw them walking the deck. Always together, and even now, they do not, will not part for anything.

Ida looks at her husband with adoration as she brushes her lips over his hands and then presses them to his cheek in a kiss. "As I do you," she tells Isidor, and then to the young ship's man, "I've no need of that jacket, young man; give it to someone who has. I am staying right here."

"Fine," the steward waves them off and offers the vest to the next woman along the hall instead, leading a little boy along beside her. He hasn't the time for this; none of them have, and so keeps going, herding more people up and out "This way, come on!" He calls, leaving Ida and Isidor behind. 

"... That's awful," Brian nearly whimpers as he looks to Andrews and Bell, swiping a sleeve across his teary eyes to dry them. "Do they not deserve to leave on a boat together?"

"The men knew what they were signing up for," says Bell. Serious, calm. As if it is non-negotiable, to leave them, to know that they shall gather themselves and may even put on life vests but are not to go into the lifeboats, and therefore they may die. Brian thinks back, suddenly, to what he'd heard about the number of lifeboats on this ship when listening to tours first day, and feels a shock of icy clarity like the water waking him up. 

There are not enough.

Something in Andrews' expression crumples. "Oh," his voice breaks as creaks and shifts in the ship precede the lights flickering, blinking off. They return to brightness after the decks lurch, and so does Brian. The great ship settles lower in the ocean, her slant more pronounced as Bell and Andrews rock on their feet and catch hold of each other; Brian grasps at the wall and at the arm of a woman who is rustling past wearing lace and furs and pearls, and who would have stumbled to fall flat upon her face if his body was not there as a brace for hers.

Yet "Leave me be!" She shrieks and jerks away from Brian, shoving him back as if believing he intends to harm her in some way.

"I'm so sorry," he sputters and raises his hands in a non-threatening way. His eyes catch agony in Mr Andrews' gaze as the architect watches this small exchange, the terror as the woman shudders and pushes on, fleeing towards a rising tide of passengers being told they may not carry their luggage out with them; please, just leave your boxes here and come onto the decks. 

"... Forgive me," Brian thinks he hears the ship's creator say brokenly as Chief Bell firmly grasps his arm and turns him, practically propels Bri towards the stairway.

"Go ON, May! Back to your berth, get your life jacket and clothes, as Andrews said! Tally ho, boy. - Steady on, Andrews," he catches the shoulders of the other man as he lunges towards Brian.

"Get to the starboard side, if you can," Andrews gasps to the young man. "Procedure up there is, if there are no women, the lifeboats will take men."

"Thank you," Brian whispers back, and in the same spirit as he had spoken the word to John afore, he adds "Godspeed, Mr Andrews."

Something flashes in the older man's face. "Call me Thomas," he responds, and adds "To you, Brian, as well."

It's the last Bri sees, Bell pulling Andrews around a corner as he charges away from them back down the stairwell, hearing water roar along the corridors of each deck, higher and higher yet.

***

**Marconi Suite, 1:10 am.**

_Titanic_ to _Olympic_ WE ARE IN COLLISION WITH A BERG. SINKING HEAD DOWN.

"Lifeboat is off, sir," Harold tells Jack as everything jams on the wireless. No signals are coming through. Phillips barely hears him, nods without real comprehension as he works to get the signal back somehow.

There is a knock, nearly a crash, on the door then, and Jack Phillips jerks forward as he had been straining so hard to hear something, anything besides the static of signals being jammed and lost. "Christ, oh, Christ," he mutters under his breath, only vaguely aware of what he is saying.

Harold whirls and stands stiff and straight. "Jack," he reaches out and shakes one of the other's arms.

Jack shrugs him off "Appreciate the sentiment, Harry, but the apparatus is jamming. I'm trying to -"

"Jack, it's the captain."

Phillips whirls in his seat, dropping his wireless muffs and lifting his fingers. "Sir!"

"At ease," Smith says. "Have you spoken to ships?"

"Yes sir, we're still trying - something's coming from _Olympic_ just now -" 

STOP TALKING, the _Olympic_ transmits. STOP TALKING. JAMMING. ALL STATIONS STOP TALKING >

The captain huffs out a breath when Phillips relays that message to him. "Tell them to get their boats ready and tell us where they are. Our sister ship -" something sparks in his eyes that seems like desperation. "... Well, boys, now is the time when we need her."

"Aye sir."

**1:15 am**

Jack taps a transmission to the _Olympic_ relaying the Captain's words about her boats and inquiring as to her position in the sea.

Far east of _Titanic_ , the ship _SS Baltic_ indicates to the ship _Caronia_ PLEASE TELL TITANIC WE ARE MAKING TOWARDS HER. WE ARE 243 MILES EAST >

**1:20 am**

VIRGINIAN TO CAPE RACE: WE ARE GOING TO TITANIC'S ASSISTANCE. WE ARE 170 MILES NORTH OF TITANIC.

CAPE RACE TO TITANIC: VIRGINIAN IS COMING TO YOUR ASSISTANCE. POSITION 170 MILES NORTH OF YOU.

RECEIVED > Jack Phillips says.

**1:25 am**

The ship _Caronia_ transmits to the _Titanic_ BALTIC COMING TO YOUR ASSISTANCE.

Right, Phillips replies to _Baltic_ with CAPTAIN SMITH SAYS GET ALL YOUR BOATS READY. SINKING.

THIS IS CARONIA. TITANIC WE ARE MAKING FOR YOU. KEEP IN TOUCH WITH US.

RECEIVED > Jack returns. And though it's too far, and not enough as the next two lifeboats are launched, both from the port side; at least a multitude of other ships have heard them. No longer do they shout into the void. 

For the first time tonight on this vast ocean it feels as if they are not alone.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> *head up to the aft deck = third class passengers were kept fore and aft, second class slightly inward, and first class at the centre of the ship to load into lifeboats
> 
> *From research I learned that Ida Straus said she and her husband Isidor "...have lived together, so we will die together" and she did not leave his side. They were last seen on deck together embracing by witnesses departing the ship. They're so sweet
> 
> *The port side had a "women and children only" policy whilst starboard had "men if there were no women" why there wasn't a policy for whole families to go TOGETHER still baffles and irks me, ugh
> 
> *Captain Smith asks for other ships to send out boats in a sweep, both to locate his lifeboats and to let other ships know to be on the lookout for survivors.  
> Bless all those ships for booking it to Titanic's aid
> 
> Yes, Brian is going back downstairs to get his life vest and more clothes. Yes, people actually traversed decks to do this. Is it mad? Probably. Will he make it? We shall see...
> 
> Comments appreciated <3


	19. Chapter 19

Boiler Room Five has been overwhelmed by water, and as it rushes through, Bill grabs John by the scruff of the neck as Herb and Shepherd move too. The gush of water rising over the hatches as they make for Boiler Room Four shoots so swiftly it causes Shepherd to slip and fall with an agonising crunch that matches the shout of pain he expels. 

"It's my leg, fellows!"

"Hold on, Shep, we've got you, mate -" as they make a chair for him with interlaced arms and shuffle on, hearing his smothered groans and yelps and knowing they cannot get him anywhere near to the ship surgeon or up, all they can do is keep him comfortable, John begins to feel terribly, horribly afraid. The water just keeps coming in, and even this little break room they're shuffling into, next to Boiler Room Four, will fill and so on and on until the entire ship is dragged down with gallons of ice water filling her, and they all will go... He shakes his head and helps Shepherd to settle on a bench, taking off his jacket to fold under and wrap around the leg that's definitely broken, it rests at a sharp angle not possible for bone.

"Thank 'ee, John," Shep's teeth are gritted, his face is white with pain, yet he still knows what must needs doing, and gives the orders for it to be done. "You know what to do for the tanks, and the lights -"

"Yessir," John nods, turning as he hears the water slam against the bulkheads. 

"You keep her running, hear? They've surely got the boats heading off."

"Okay, and you -"

"Leave me, this is as safe as I can get," his lips twitch in a tiny smile as he looks up at all of them. They look to one another, Herb letting out a stifled sob, John blinking rapidly and trying incredibly hard to smile. Bill clasps Shep's hand in his and shakes it as he pulls the other's head into his broad chest for a hug. 

"C'mon lads," the enormous coal trimmer goes to the door again. "We'll keep the water out long as we can."

There are nods and squaring shoulders and the throwing open of the door as water pours by in a deluge.

***

Passengers are clattering past Brian as he lengthens his strides, heading down to E Deck again. His brain has started screaming at him, a low murmur that has risen to a shriek, rather, as he sees the sinking taking its toll and yet his legs continue propelling him down. Because it felt as if Thomas had given him an order, and his order was to ensure he was warm and for him not to drown.

As he crashes down to stand in the hallway of Deck E, his limbs are aching as he sees and feels the water, pooling along the floor and rising. It reaches his knees, his hips, and gets to his waist as Brian slogs back down to his and Roger's door, almost swimming, cutting through the water and attempting to keep his breaths slow and steady and even, rather than allowing the sharp gasping of his lungs to seize up in the cold.

The door feels so heavy as he reaches it, leans his shoulder there and breathes. He feels weighted down, so much so, and only a day or so ago he might have allowed himself to sink, to slip away down here with all the floodwaters. But tonight Andrews had told him to save himself, and John had said he was not meant to die. Sweet John. Determined altruistic man, whose lips tasted of hope and strength and freedom, if those concepts have a taste. Brian feels again the sharp need he'd felt upon kissing him; the warmth, gentleness, and he hopes not disgust in the gasp John gave, the way he clutched at Brian's hair (which could have been an attempt to pull away as much as to stay near, and the entire moment was so quick and mad that Brian decides it is best not to dwell upon it until he gets off of this ship. If he gets off this ship.) Right, no, none of that - he had told Roger he'd look to the future. He tamps down the horror he feels not knowing where Roger and Freddie are, as he is sure they are together; any person with eyes could see there is something between them, and Brian is at least eighty percent sure they are gone for each other. If they survive, Freddie will take care of Roger, and Rog of him. They'll be all right, he has to believe that.

As for him...

An icy rush of water derails Brian's thoughts, rudely thrusting his body into the door, yet he clamps his hand around the handle and shoves with his shoulder, and it springs open, showing all the clothes and lights and everything beginning to rise in the wave that follows Brian in. He means to shut the door again, but doubts that he can ensure it will reopen, and so he strokes across to the tiny berth closet and begins fumbling into clothes, layers of shirts and jackets, woollen trousers - his odd long canvas coat that Roger always made fun of. Rog - before tying that, he finds Roger's favourite flowered overshirt, almost a jacket, dark with embroidered golden blooms. He is sure Rog is wearing his fur coat.... Ordinarily Brian would surely be sweating in all this, but as he wraps it all around his body now and ties himself into his canvas coat, the tails of it floating in the sea, he only feels a slight retreat of the cold. 

And then he spies his violin case, and his and Roger's sketchbooks.

Brian will be damned if he isn't going to take his violin, as idiotic as that would seem; he and his father had built it together when he was fourteen. No other way existed for him to learn, no money for purchase or lessons, and so the shipbuilder and his son had built something of beauty and love. No matter if it breaks or its sound is ruined by the icy sea, Brian cannot bear to leave his beloved instrument behind.

Tightening the bow and wrapping the violin in a bit of cloth, Bri sees space enough to roll up one book and stuff it in, either his or Roger's. His is full of words, of feelings from this voyage that he'd hoped to put to song someday. He knows that Rog would scoff and say that he can remember his art, he doesn't need the work, the sentiment - yet Roger worked so hard upon those pieces. They hold something in them of the world, and Brian is heartbroken enough at the surety he must leave his beloved camera behind. It's too bulky and heavy to go. 

Brian is jarred out of thought by a horrendous creaking groan, and the ship tilts farther forward, water pouring over his back as he ducks, grabbing one book and rolling it to stuff inside, resting with his violin. He latches his case and ties the violin to his back with sodden scarves and clothes that briefly warm his aching fingers in the chill, causing pinpricks of feeling therein, and then as he sloshes back through the water to the berth door, feels something clamp around the back of his neck and drag him bodily the rest of the way.

***

**Marconi Suite, 1:27am.**

The _Olympic_ sends its position and asks if _Titanic_ is steering southerly to meet them. Jack Phillips wants to scream. He'd thought that since several ships were making for them, he would be done explaining that they are sinking by now. "For the love of - no, we're not bloody steering southerly -"

WE ARE PUTTING THE WOMEN OFF IN THE BOATS > He responds.

RECEIVED.

**1:30 am**

Two more lifeboats are sent out then, marking his words. Harold, peering through a glass, says "Least they've got forty off in one, seventy in the other, Jack."

WE ARE PUTTING WOMEN OFF IN THE BOATS. PUTTING PASSENGERS OFF IN SMALL BOATS. WOMEN AND CHILDREN. CANNOT LAST MUCH LONGER. LOSING POWER.

Another lifeboat is launched. 

**1:35 am**

_Olympic_ asks about the weather.

CLEAR AND CALM, > Jack responds.

***

**Boiler Room 4, previously. 1:20 am**

The ocean is pouring in. Lights have to stay on, but the ship is losing power rapidly. 

"This is it, lads - get to your stations. We're holding up in Three to One, sea's seeping in. Everyone else get your arses up on deck, you are relieved. Everyone from latter boilers and all you lot younger'n twenty," Fred Barrett bawls down to the bent backs at work. "No gambling with yer lives, lads - get on out and up!"

John does not move, rather, he IS moved, pairs of burly soot-covered arms come down to tug at him and Herb and a few of the other boys. "Come on then, get out."

"No, I - I'll, I can go for help. You need people down here!"

"Son, we will be needin' _gravestones_ down 'ere. You've got to go."

He is bodily shoved off and out of the electrical room by a strong hand at the centre of his back.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> *Engineer Shepherd broke his leg at 12:45 and all the others could do was try to keep him comfortable
> 
> I'm thinking of a particular flowered jacket that Brian and Roger both wore in photos from the 70s as being the one that Brian put on to save :)
> 
> *Water poured into Four and the ship started losing power as a result at 1:20
> 
> I can't with all the questions being asked to the wireless operators...these actually were sent via Morse code that night. Jack Phillips had the patience of a saint.
> 
> I'm having to make this longer because Bri hasn't even seen Roger or Freddie yet!
> 
> For timeframe: John is being pushed out of the boiler room at about the same time Brian is down on E Deck
> 
> Comments appreciated <3


	20. Chapter 20

As Brian is yanked back through the door to his drowned berth, he hears a roaring voice and recognises Sven, one of the Swedes. Who had come to the berth as well - for what reason, other than to search for his friend? - but now carries Brian through the water as if the lean man is a package to be mailed. 

"Am I - are we the last ones down?" Brian gasps and receives what he thinks, he hopes is affirmation, though the grumbles of Swedish mean nothing to his English ears as the burly man kicks once and twice at bars blocking up the crew stairwell headed upwards. He manages to bend the metal somehow, though, enough to shove Brian's body through; and Brian looks back to see the man struggling to widen the hole. He swears and whirls, looks for something, anything to help, and finds an emergency axe. Breaking the glass surrounding it with one elbow and thanking heavens he has so many layers of clothes protecting his arm, Brian pushes the axe through the bars to Sven and prays as the other man says words that Brian is pretty certain mean "thanks" and "go!" 

Brian has half a mind to turn and madly dash back downstairs to locate John, wherever he may be, but strange echoes exist down here. Distant clangs and the rush of water rising wars with the thundering of Brian's heartbeat in his ears, stopping him in his tracks. The expanse of deck appears endless and dismal, eerie under the ominous flickering of lights, doorways and ceilings reflecting on the water-covered floor. The water that is inexorably rising....

He hears a grunt and clang behind him, and begging he knows not what or whom to allow Sven the ability to break through, Brian forces his legs to move and carry him upwards towards D and C Deck.

***

John looks back in terror as he'd got to the slick stairs, along with several other boys. "Shepherd -"

"They're keeping 'im comfortable, there's not much else to do."

Water is roaring into the boiler room now and the gravestone comment still pounds in John's head, along with the knowledge that this behemoth of metal and wood and wiring is going down with so many souls onboard. "We can send crew back down," John gasps, helpless. "I, we can't just -" he gulps, the water rising and crashing over his body and those of his fellows, shocking in temperature, plastering hair to faces and clothes to bodies.

"Go."

And he does; wading through the drink crawling up the boilers, sending sparks and hisses as the fires die; billows of smoke and soot exploding over him and the others with him, past coffee cups and trimmers' caps and a man freeing his friend from an avalanche of coal. John slips and slides and clambers up the stairway, railings like icicles, agony of the cold sapping away strength and feeling as his legs begin to ache as much as his heart does to turn back.

He does not want, he cannot bear to leave them.

Yet he goes.

He is up from Deck F now to E, the slant so pronounced that water collects and lights glow through it as if in some outlandish gigantic aquarium, with strips of clothing and hats and shoes as the creatures of the sea. A lady's shawl floats by his face and John makes for the stairs up to D Level.

He is almost there when he hears a child crying, the sharp sound splitting the air, and John does not think, he simply moves towards the sound, down the end of a hallway to a door mostly blocked by fallen debris and water rushing through. Held up above its flow for this moment, thick blanket and gigantic dark slicker under tangled hair "Cora," John is pushing at the water, feeling its endless weight dragging inexorably at his limbs as he moves towards her. "Cora, Mr Cartmell!" 

He sees her father, then; face ashen, one hairy arm outstretched from behind the heavy bed and chest that had come unbraced from the walls in the tipping of the ship. He is stuck behind his door as the water is rising.

John's got no idea what he's saying, but "It's John, Deacon. D'you remember? From the party and up on deck before, erm - here, I can help -"

A light brightening in the father's eyes shows that he remembers. "T-take her," he holds out his daughter, who automatically latches onto John's neck and shoulder as he gets to her and wraps one arm around her so she is no longer hanging in the air. Her father's voice is trembling as he locks eyes with John's, yet his gaze is fierce and firm and steady. "Save my little girl."

"Okay. Just hang on sir, I can help you -" John shoves at the door, but a creak and then a roaring sound causes both men to turn their heads.

"Save her!" Frank Cartmell calls. "I love you, Cora-bear!" His voice breaks as rushing floodwaves rise along the hall, and John with his engineering mind sees and dives for an alcove across the way. He flings his body into it and wraps himself around Cora, who screams for her father. He is torn away from the doorframe by the water, and if John had looked back he would have seen the heavy berth come up and strike Cartmell hard, driving him below the surface and to the depths. As it is, he runs with Cora in his arms back to the crew door and opens it with his keys. 

Pounding up stairs from Deck D, to C, to A from B - John only pauses for breath and to check for fellow crew members. And to try to soothe Cora, who is sobbing and shaking as if she could break to pieces in his arms.

***

**Portside Boat Deck, outdoors. 1:40 am.**

Outside the boat decks are broken into vaguely organised chaos, far more chaotic than organised. Rockets are going up, have been since before the first boats shoved off around 12:45. At first the flares seemed akin to fireworks, a lark for the passengers, but now it is clear the ship is in trouble, so much so that crewmen are not trusting solely to the wireless and send up these signals to anyone in the visual vicinity. 

There are no longer jokes as the lifeboats are filled, but still promises are made and soothing words uttered.

"Don't worry, little girl."

"You go and I'll stay a while."

And there are the silent looks, the deep and lingering kisses pressed to cheeks and lips, stolen one by one before a husband relinquishes hold of his young wife's waist and disappears into the crowds again.

Meanwhile, others remain below.

**C Deck.**

"You can't keep us locked in down here!"

Brian had gotten up decks into still-warm corridors, thank goodness, which dried him out rather quickly, considering. And then he hears a howling cacaphony of rage and fear and pain, and finds that the lower classes are still bunched here, mostly men, though there are still some women and girls fighting to get to the front, where the men are railing at the crew to allow them up on deck.

"For God's sake, man, this ship is sinking!"

Brian catches sight of the crewman who seems to be in charge, and makes his way to the door to speak to him, words first calm and pleasant and polite, yet soon the strain eats at him as well and he nearly cries in frustrated anguish. "Pity us!"

After arguing, his shoulders so taut they're like to rip through his coat, and he almost understands the white-hot fury that could beget a tavern brawl, Brian hears a beautiful sound that he honestly wasn't sure he would ever again hear. "Brian!" He turns to see a tawdry golden head alongside a dark one, feels strong arms gripping him in a tight embrace and he could cry from the relief of it. 

"Oh, Rogie," he breathes, "and Freddie too," thank goodness, he had thought they'd be together but hadn't known - and then his best mate is right to roaring over the crew for keeping them shut in like animals, and Brian notices that his and Freddie's lips are purple, nigh close to blue -

"Long story, Bri. Later." Those sharp blue eyes shut down his questions, though not at all the worry that claws Brian's insides as he sees Roger's swollen, clearly injured hand. But Freddie has keys, says they'd got them from a steward, and boiling up from down below is that gigantic coal trimmer. Brian's heart is in his throat as the doors go, and he advises the crewmen to stand back. He wants to grab ahold of the enormous bloke Bill, and shake him til he divulges the current whereabouts of John; but they have gotten a small victory and cannot waste it so rush through the doors and up.

As he breaks out onto the deck and reaches the port side, Brian hopes that somewhere, Sven has found Digs and is behind them.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The latter portion of this chapter corresponds to Chapter 18 from quirkysubject's fantastic piece :)
> 
> *The quotes from on deck as people got into the lifeboats are taken from actual recollections in Walter Lord's _A Night to Remember_
> 
> I feel so awful for what I've done to Mr Cartmell, but at least Cora is all right
> 
> Next chapter gets us closer to the end, final transmissions, the last of the boats...
> 
> Comments appreciated <3


	21. Chapter 21

**Marconi Suite. 1:35 am**

Another banging on the door precedes the information that the engine room is getting flooded. Jack sends out the message twice over the airwaves. Harold had run out earlier, and quipped that they may want to try sending an SOS, as it is the newest lingo. "This may be our only chance to use it," he said.

The humour is gone now as _Frankfurt_ asks ARE THERE ANY BOATS AROUND YOU ALREADY? > and both Phillips and Bride know their situation is dire, because no, there are no boats.

None but their own. 

CQD SOS CQD SOS CQD SOS  
ENGINE ROOM FLOODED  
ENGINE ROOM FLOODED  
CQD SOS CQD SOS

**1:37 am**

BALTIC COMING 200 MILES EAST WE ARE RUSHING TO YOU >

Another lifeboat, number eleven, is launched. "They're getting off, Jack," Harold says in an attempt to soothe them both. This means the passengers, at least, will be all right.

They have got to be. 

**1:40 am**

AM LIGHTING UP ALL POSSIBLE BOILERS AS FAST AS WE CAN > The _Olympic_ says. 

Two more boats are launched, both from the starboard side.

Meanwhile, the _Olympic_ , though making haste, is 500 miles away. Cape Race realises this and sends a message to the _Virginian_ , indicating that not only is the _Olympic_ that far removed, but the other ships mustering themselves to aid are also. The _Virginian_ is closer and puts on speed. 

CQD CQD SOS SOS THIS IS TITANIC

 _Carpathia_ is reliably the ship whose signals reach, and her operator informs Jack BALTIC COMING TO YOUR ASSISTANCE >

 **1:45 am**

Lifeboat 2 has been launched, that is the majority of the boats - Harold has been keeping as much of a tally as he can for something else to do as he helps his senior officer transmit and translate. 

Panic sets in as they are informed the engine room is filling up to the boilers.

**Engine Room. F, G, H Decks**

Chief Bell had gotten back down to the boilers and received reports as the water continues pouring in. The men had held out in the second and third boiler rooms since the fourth was flooded twenty-five minutes prior. Now he is forced to radio up that the power is failing as the fans have been turned off and water is rising to the boilers alongside the engine turbine. "Get your arses up on deck, every man not needed in this room!" He roars out, but cannot stop the souls who will not leave.

Though the lights are flickering and the fires begin to die, the trimmers keep cutting excess and the firemen shovel coal. Barrett is still here, face shining red from exertion and possibly due to burning, he has kept so close to every boiler he can, keeping it running. Somehow still jocular and yes, joking, he's rolled up his sleeves and Bell watches the flash of braces that Barrett wears as he leaps round the boilers, shooing out the last of the engineers and electricians "She'll be on emergency power, boys"

Bell takes a deep breath and writes out a missive to put into the officer's safe, a letter amending his will for his wife, Maud. Then he steps back out to oversee the last of the work, and runs down to assist with the last of the boilers. He will be damned if this ship is going down just yet. They still have time, as long as they can give her. Already they've outlasted Andrews' estimate of an hour, by double. What is half an hour more?

Precious time. 

**Marconi Suite. 1:47 am**

ARE THERE ANY BOATS AROUND YOU ALREADY? > _Frankfurt_ inquires again.

A minute later Jack sends out distress in a blaze of CQDs and SOS's that other ships attempt to respond to, yet none of them are heard. Jack backs away from the apparatus, chest tight, unable for a second to breathe. Harold comes in to speak to his friend aboard the _Carpathia_ : COME QUICK. SHE'S TAKING ON WATER. IT'S FULL UP TO THE BOILERS. >

ALL OUR BOATS ARE READY. > _Carpathia_ responds. WE ARE COMING AS HARD AS WE CAN OLD MAN. DOUBLE WATCH ON ENGINE ROOM. HAVE YOUR LIFEBOATS READY WHEN WE ARRIVE. >

COME AS QUICKLY AS POSSIBLE OLD MAN. CQD SOS SOS SOS CQD >

Jack has steadied his breathing and now bends over Harold's shoulder, his voice breaking as if with tears. "She's coming, Harry, with double shifts of men on their engines, but I dunno that it's enough. If I'd - if I had sent up the first word I heard about icebergs to the bridge -"

"Ah, Jack." Harold turns, catching sight of another boat being lowered out of the corner of his eye. "You were on with Cape Race, we couldn't have known where we'd be; and the bridge had us going at top speed."

"But I should've said something, it's - this is -"

"Not your fault. It isn't your fault, mate." He likely should have said 'sir', as Phillips is his superior and an officer, but right now Harold Bride sees someone feeling as much terror as himself, even as he tries to swallow his own. Looking into Jack's round olive face he cannot bear for this man to blame himself. He reaches out and squeezes the other's hand. "Come on, Jack. You're at your post now. You're getting word out there. People are coming for us."

It is at this precise moment _Frankfurt_ calls. WE ARE 100 MILES OFF. WHAT IS THE MATTER WITH YOU? >

Jack and Harold stare at each other in utter, gobsmacked disbelief. And then Jack snaps. He lunges at the console and his fingers fly to type back a message. FOOL. YOU FOOL. STAND BY. STAND BY. STAND BY AND KEEP OUT. KEEP OUT.

"For God's sake," Jack Phillips sputters, gaze fastened on his junior officer's, feeling absolutely helpless. "I can hardly bear this, Harry."

Harold's voice catches with a small but discernable wobble. "I know, Jack. I...we just have to abide." _A little longer. As long as we can remain afloat._

Oh, dear.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> *From recollections of Harold Bride, "'The humour of the situation appealed to me,' he said" in the book _Titanic: First Accounts_. They had not felt a jarring of the ship, and due to the fact she was nigh unsinkable, apparently humour was possible at the outset of the voyage, and the night. It only became apparent by the time the engine room was flooded that other ships were too far off to get to them before the actual sinking
> 
> *Unfortunately there were a lot of concerns in retrospect, during official inquiry, about the knowledge of icebergs in the vicinity and who, if anyone, was at fault for the _Titanic_ sinking as she did. It was difficult to get out transmissions, and it's said Jack Phillips did cut off one earlier in the day when warned about icebergs because he had finally, after hours of trying, managed to get in touch with Cape Race. However it is not his responsibility to stop the ship from traversing potentially hazardous waters, at night, at top speed - none of which was protocol but all of which was suggested by Mr. Ismay and the White Star Line... A lot of trouble and tragedy, and no real cut-and-dry surety. Could the captain have ordered to halt the ship? Would he then have been relieved of command? So many questions. 
> 
> *Braces = suspenders
> 
> Next chapter, at least one question we can answer is when our boys Brian and John will meet up again :)
> 
> Comments appreciated <3


	22. Chapter 22

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> On the decks
> 
> Timeline previous to and concurrent with Chapter 19 of quirkysubject's "To Tell You When I Find You"

**Portside Boat Deck. 1:50 am.**

It is chaos up here, so much so that, upon seeing aborted rushes on the lifeboats and even people leaping off decks to stow away as said boats are lowered into the sea, Brian cannot help but think the three of them will not get off this ship together. At least, not alive. It isn't pessimism or melancholy that makes him believe so, either, but the view of crewmen shouting for passengers to get back. The fifth officer draws his gun and that sight and sound tears into Bri's awareness as he also recalls the words of Andrews: _Get to the starboard side, if you can._ He looks at Freddie, in his fine clothes, and Roger, who will not leave this man's side. Freddie can surely make it onto a boat, first class passengers are being loaded first, anyhow, and Roger is resourceful enough that Brian is sure he will follow. Even if it is by moving down a deck and jumping into a lowering boat as he has just witnessed a passenger do. 

Whatever the reason "We should part ways, and meet back here," he speaks up of a sudden, seeing the flash of shock and fury and near betrayal in Roger's eyes, even as he will not make his best friend choose between himself and Freddie. And, Brian admits to himself, maybe if he walks up and down the boat deck on both the port and starboard side, he will have a chance of finding John. "We'll have a better chance of getting off the ship alone, or. Two is better than three," he adds lamely. 

"Don't be ridiculous, Bri," Roger flares. "This isn't the fucking time for martyrdom -"

Brian's temper flares right back. "Look around, Rogie! There's no way we're getting off, not together! Not here!"

A crying baby is held by its mother, father's face puckering as he begs to go aboard but is forced away; a young woman offers up her place for a married lady with a son. Voices rise wailing and pleading, and an altercation occurs down the deck between a few men. 

Brian is clenching his hands in desperation. He wants Roger and Freddie to have a chance, with or without him. Is prepared to physically shove himself away and run to starboard, when he's provided with unlikely backup.

"He's right, darling," Freddie's sensitive gaze locks on Brian, and those deep eyes seem to see and to understand so much that Brian wishes suddenly to write about them. "Apart we'll have more of a chance. And if we can, we'll meet back here." If we must, he means, before the ship sinks. Brian's lips twitch as they look into one another's eyes, and then he stares at Roger, feeling a desperate fondness for this irascible man and begging him, with every ounce of his being, to at least attempt to understand where Brian is coming from.

"...Fine," Roger growls. "But if you don't show back up or find some way off this bloody ship, Bri, I'm going to kick your arse."

"Of course you will," Brian smiles, unable even to roll his eyes in response to that comment, though his best mate is ridiculous. He nods to Freddie as he and Roger look at each other. "if we can't get off, we'll meet back here." Strange and eerie pact they make in the clear night, with nearly no wind and stars sparkling above; the loudest sounds are shrieking of those who may soon be dead. Brian shakes out of that place in his mind as Roger gives him a look full of so many things. A lump comes to Brian's throat as he looks back. Everything he wants to or could say, Roger knows. If he spake any of it now they would risk standing here forever, and so with a sharp nod to Freddie and to Roger, Brian turns and pushes away, off to starboard through the crowd.

**Starboard Deck. 1:52.**

As the ship lists lower in the water every passing moment, the starboard side lowers as higher tilts the port. All scramble towards the officers' deck up top, or as close as they can get whilst still standing on the Boat Deck.

Women and children are to be put off first here, but there is not nearly so much shoving nor shouting. No one has drawn a weapon. "We'll get ye men next, just let women and weans go first, alright?" Thomas's words were true. 

Shifting and turning about in the crowd as he is, Brian's head is higher than most and so he spies a woman with two children on her arms. "Here, madam, let me get you to the boat line," he reaches out to her and lifts his head and voice to call to the officer who had spoken the order. "Sir! I've got a lady here, with kids."

"Let her through," a series of arms and hands begin to part the crowd - burly sorts shoving others less so to clear a path. Including some blokes who look suspiciusly like trimmers and firemen, which sends a jolt of hope like an electric shock through Brian's chest. If the biggest sods from the boiler rooms are abovedecks, surely there is occasion for a young engineer to also be. With that Bri cranes his neck for John as he looks for other women to usher forward.

***

**Marconi Suite. 1:50 am.**

Unbeknownst to Jack and Harold, the duo of ships _Caronia_ and _Baltic_ are speaking of their position, though the radiomen of the _Baltic_ cannot agree upon what signals they are hearing, as _Titanic's_ apparatus output has gotten much weaker.

TITANIC GIVES CQD AND SOS  
HER ENGINE ROOM IS FILLING UP TO THE BOILERS

 _Asian_ to _Cape Race_ : HAVE CALLED TITANIC BUT NO REPLY. HE CANNOT HEAR ME.

**1:55 am.**

_Baltic_ to _Cape Race_ : TITANIC SIGNAL VERY WEAK. DO YOU HAVE NEWS OF TITANIC?

WE HAVE NOT HEARD FROM TITANIC FOR ABOUT HALF AN HOUR. HIS POWER MAY BE GONE.

***

**Starboard side.**

The ship has really begun to point down and Brian stares so hard and moves so swiftly amongst crew and passengers that he nearly does not catch sight of plastered dark brown hair, even darker in its drenched state than usual, against snow-white skin smudged with soot, grey-green gaze flickering between horror, relief, and myriad other emotions as a small form is bundled up in wiry arms - tiny, in fact, and hanging onto this personage as if life depends on it.

"Brian!" He hears then his name raised louder than he's ever heard it from an ever-sweet tone of voice with a particular accent, and he is moving, long hands grasping and pushing through people to get through even as he apologises. At the last he stops, bashful - or would stop, nigh mortified over the last act he'd done when with John.

But "Oh, John," Brian gasps out anyhow, sight blurring with tears of thanks and relief. His voice catches on almost a sob as headlong into Bri's thin chest rushes John, wrapping his free arm round Brian's neck and pressing against him. He shakes in his own turn from both relief and cold. "You're here."

"I'm here."

Brian automatically strokes Cora's hair where she nestles securely in John's opposite arm, and wonders, painfully, where her father is. "Hullo dear heart," he speaks directly to the little girl, tone a croon as she twists and lifts her face out of John's neck. "Remember me?" When a nod occurs, he smiles. "I'm glad. I'm Brian. They let you come up, then?" He asks John.

"Chief Bell and Fireman Barrett relieved us," the young engineer says. "I didn't - I wanted, tried to stay as long as I could, but Bill and other blokes booted as many of us younger fellows as possible once Boiler 4 started filling up. As I was coming I found Cora," he shifts the little girl, hums to her as she starts to whimper. Curling his hand around her head and rocking her "There was a flood wave, and her father -" John has started shaking and heaving out ugly choking sounds that Brian recognises as sobs. He holds John closer in that moment. "I wanted to get to him, tried so hard, Brian. But the wave came on so strong and cold I couldn't. I - he told me to save his little girl." Frank Cartmell's face and words are seared into his mind now. Sniffling, wiping at his face and swallowing the weeping as best he can, "So that is what I'm going to do," John croaks out stoutly.

Brian nods at him, runs his hand up and down John's back in an attempt to comfort, his own face puckering with sympathy and his breaths hauling out in resolve. "Let's get you both to a boat, then."

That is easier said than done; even now the boats are going full, seventy souls aboard, but they don't get to the side fast enough, and of a sudden Thomas Andrews appears on deck, his features ashen, and Mr Ismay, the representative of the White Star Line, who had encouraged the captain to press the ship hard through the night in this ice field, beckons for women and children to get into a ship, even as he goes first, and all he does is beckon. Andrews opens cabinets with extra life vests and passes them out to passengers and crew members, pointing out deck chairs and other articles that can be used as flotation devices. 

Andrews starts to toss chair after chair over the rails to prepare makeshift rafts for those passengers who will have to rely on them and naught else in the icy water, and locks eyes with Ismay as the man's boat is lowered. 

"Your life, Ismay!" His voice cracks as he shouts, sweeping an arm to the tilted ship and all the passengers and crew still aboard her. "You owe your life to this!"

Brian's eyes are torn away from that sight as he hears and sees Freddie and Roger, his heart simultaneously lifting and plunging to find them both still on board. They cluster together, their little band, and at the sight of what Andrews is doing, Brian's quick mind goes to work. He looks for chairs and bedposts and casks "Anything wood, we can tie up and use," untying a few of his scarves he lines up some chairs. 

John, handing Cora to Roger for a moment, helps Brian lay slats in a criss-crossing pattern and tie the wood together with knots - from the bottom third of a nightgown that a young woman rips free and hands them upon seeing what they are doing. "George!" She beckons furiously to a young man, her husband, they find out - they're a pair of honeymooners - and he goes right into the first class smoking area that doubles as a casino and bashes the legs off of a poker table.

Freddie and Roger disappear and return with an immense portion of wooden wainscoting, along with a sturdy woman who carries an axe. A couple men who speak French appear and assist, as does a stewardess and two large fellows. Somehow, this will work, Brian hopes. Somehow they shall - they must - make it onward to New York.

**Marconi Suite, 2am.**

The collapsible boats are now being opened, and lowered. Harold sees makeshift rafts being made and tossed into the sea, and he sees and feels the water rushing under the door around his feet now. "Jack," he says. "Captain said if water gets in, that's when we go."

"A minute, Harold." CQD CQD THIS IS TITANIC >

**2:05 am**

A second collapsible is lowered, and a harsh clunking screeching sound precedes lights shorting out. "Shit."

Frozen, all stops, and then the glow of emergency power blooms and brightens. Jack scrambles to work the emergency Marconi set. Harold sends out signals to test it. 

V  
V  
CQD TITANIC WE ARE SINKING FAST. PASSENGERS ARE BEING PUT INTO BOATS. TITANIC >

Water has reached their knees, and Harold puts on and tightens his life vest. He searches out the other for Jack.

"Come on, Jack -"

 _Virginian_ to _Titanic_ : CANNOT READ YOUR SIGNAL. YOU NEED TO TRY YOUR EMERGENCY SET.

 **2:10 am.**

The door opens again, but instead of the captain it is a wild-eyed man who throws himself into the room and grabs for Phillips' life vest. He is snarling, teeth snapping almost like a cornered animal, and Jack is still trying to send a signal as he recoils, struggling with Harold's help against the man, eventually (hating himself all the while) striking him in the head and shoving him out the door. 

CQD THIS IS TITANIC  
CQD THIS IS

At that transmission, water has reached the bottom of the apparatus and causes shorting and static. Harold is opening up the door again and carefully checking the hallway as Jack tugs his life vest toggles tight with stiffening fingers. "Right. Let's go, Harry." They set out through the rising water up towards the Boat Deck. 

They can do no more here now.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> *Thomas Andrews did in fact throw deck chairs into the water to create floatation devices for passengers
> 
> *George and his wife are real passengers who roomed in E Deck and were on their honeymoon
> 
> *Mr Ismay got on a boat with his family and "beckoned for women and children to come aboard". He was asked during an official inquiry whether he believed he owed his life to all of the passengers and crew that did not make it off the ship.
> 
> *Jack Phillips nearly had his life vest stolen, and that was at the moment of their final transmission before going topside.
> 
> Almost to the foundering, aaah (also this is the final chapter count!)
> 
> Comments appreciated <3


	23. Chapter 23

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sinking of the ship of dreams

**Aft Starboard Boat Deck. 2:12 am.**

The last of the officers and sailors still aboard try to keep people organised as much as they can upon preparing to send the last of the boats. Two fellows rush up and down the starboard side of the boat deck, asking if there are any more women. 

There was a mad scrambling aft - waters have reached just beneath the Boat Deck now, and the _Titanic_ is down at the nose. Harold looks at Jack, who heads swiftly aft as well, rushing ahead of him. The younger operator follows and his eyes are arrested by a familiar figure.

"Mr Andrews!"

Thomas Andrews cannot instantly place the face and voice of the young man who materialises in front of him. He had bawled after Ismay and his family, and now feels drained, exhausted. Yet they are not done yet, so many more still stand upon this deck, so many lives must still be saved... "Harold," he gasps and grips the operator's shoulder, recognising him now. "What do you here still? Did the captain not give orders to release you from your post?"

"He did, sir, but Phillips and I just came up, Jack sent a last transmission that was cut off. Sir, I've got to help - me mate's putting the ship _Carpathia_ for us like mad and we've got to ensure she has people to save, sir." Harold Bride stands tall, this skinny sallow boy with as much heart as Jack Phillips has bravery, and Andrews' eyes fill with tears.

"Good boy," he says, voice catching, and whistles for life vests to be found and handed out "there are more than three thousand on this ship, I know, I checked" and Harold goes with him, stopped by a crush of fellows trying to put off the final collapsible. Not one of the men is a sailor, though, and their work is not going well. Harold puts himself to help and hears the band strike up a slow sweet song, violin coming in strongly. Ragtime, 'Autumn'. He recognises the tune, and hears what sounds like a child's shriek then.

**2:15 am**

Brian is a wreck. He at least can feel his extremities, which could be very useful for shaking Roger as his stubborn berk of a best friend had heard a shout, from Thomas Andrews, that there are three thousand life vests, and after a crewman had given the idea in French to tie vests to the bottom of their raft ("might need to do the edges, more like," John had suggested, "so she won't flip from all the ballast downward") Rog had got that look in his eye and thought in his head, to run off and get more preservers - he'd gone without giving Brian the chance to call him a tosser and get him to stay, and of course Freddie had followed.

Brian has tied his, and John's, and the young couples' vests along the raft, just under the sides "Not much of a fashion statement, but good to stay alive," was cracked and John is tying barrels, empty casks to the sides of the raft as well. Cora, in all the bustle and from everything that she has experienced and seen, poor little girl, cries out and a round-faced crewman hears. He comes up to them, horrified.

"Oh, no, this little girl should have been able to go!" His hands already work to shrug off his overcoat as he takes in John's state as he holds her. The young engineer had muttered he cannot feel a thing, and this man wraps his own garment around them. "We've got to get you all into the water, now" he looks at the raft as it rests cockeyed on the deck, preservers attached and bits of nightgown fluttering from makeshift joists, and nods admiringly. "That should do. Here, I'll go down with it, to hold it steady for you." He starts rolling up his sleeves and takes one edge of the raft, hauling it towards the side of the ship. Two other fellows join him, both in the garb of firemen, and a third ties off a rope to lower down. "Jack Phillips, radio operator," he introduces himself, and Brian recalls the sight of him behind Harold Bride, working at Morse Code mere days ago. Has it really only been days? Less than a week, to this. 

Brian shakes his head and pulls himself to the present, introducing himself even in this moment. It's absurd. Utterly, profoundly absurd. But if this man is here to steady the raft and help them survive, Brian is going to give him his name. 

Jack dives in as the raft is carried to the edge by the other men, and a rope is tossed down. Mr Andrews has come back along the railing and sees what they are doing, so gets to the other end of the rope, creating a pulley. "Hold her steady, Phillips!" He calls down.

"Aye sir!" Jack replies, and an enormous shrieking creak and splash of the raft going into the water precedes John telling the largest fellows to go down and spread themselves out: "stand on opposite edges of the raft to equalise weight". Brian hears a burst of Spanish over his shoulder, and catches sight of a blur of movement that materialises into someone kissing both of his cheeks. One of his fellow music lovers, from Uruguay, has joined them. 

"Amigo!" The man cries to Brian, and Bri hasn't the heart to ask the whereabouts of his other friends. The two burly firemen have gone down, along with another, the stout little lady whose accent sounds Finnish, if Brian had to guess - the newlyweds, the stewardess, and then John tries to hand Cora to him. Flickering lights behind her illume the set expression on the engineer's face, and Brian feels a dark terror sink talons into his heart. He knows that look. 

"Go on then, Brian." Something in the voice as well.

"I'm going only if you come right after, John. Please -" Bri's voice breaks and he knows he is begging. "Don't go back down... I haven't a clue about Freddie or Roger, don't make me lose you too."

John opens his mouth as if to say something, agony flaring in his eyes. This hurts more than it hurt him to leave his post and listen to Barrett and Bell. Hurts more than that liver shot, even. As much as leaving Mr Cartmell, or Shepherd had; imagining the latter struggling for breath as the pain in his leg burns, the water filling up, rising and rising, over him and all of those men, asphyxiating them as they fight to save the ship, themselves, to breathe - but the lights flicker, and at last go out. And that decides him. He nods to Brian. "Okay," he says.

**2:18 am**

"Get on the rope together, lads," urges Andrews. "I'll lower you down." Just a bit from them, the final collapsible boat has been shifted almost to the railing, accompanied by bombastic shouts from a well-dressed man who acts as if he's calling out amidst chaos at the seashore. Brian spots Harold Bride with the group there, and knows Phillips will be with them. They can help him. But the creator of the ship -

"Mr Andrews!" He goes down, Cora's hands clenched in his hair and around the case of his violin. "Thomas, please, come with us!" He could tie the rope off, surely, and come down - Brian's feet strike the raft and he sits, Cora in his lap as he beckons back to Andrews, no longer recognising his own voice, so panicked it is. John has got down too, and he and a fireman work to haul Jack Phillips out of the water. 

Andrews throws down an oar for them, and with that a wave roars up and over the deck. Brian watches the architect's lips move but can hear naught but the roaring of waves as just before they break a voice screams "HOLD ON!" and "LIE DOWN!"

Brian curls his body protectively around Cora's as water breaks over top of the raft, sapping strength and stealing breath. There is the slow sound of the wave tapering off, of movement that is Jack being hauled from out of the sea, and pushing off away from the ship as she tilts straight on her nose behind them, slipping beneath the waves, foundering in earnest.

**2:20 am. Final sinking.**

Harold cannot tell which direction is up or down as he grasps the collapsible's oarlock and is thrown from the deck on the roaring wave. He is wet through and claws up afterward to find himself beneath the collapsible boat, which is in the water, overturned. Kicks and struggles, his legs burning as much as his lungs do for air, and somehow he thrashes about, feels free air above his head and gasps, dragging himself to the surface. Treading water, he turns back to see the once-grand _RMS Titanic_ at last sink beneath the waves, a couple embracing on deck as the band still plays aboard her.

She was beautiful at the last, in a ghastly sort of way. Sparks burst from her funnels in a macabre fireworks display. Tilting fully onto her nose she at last began to settle slowly, with grace into the sea, shouts going up along with music still playing - by men Harold calls heroic - to the last.

And naught after but a moment of bone-chilling silence and the sight of so many men in the sea, both dead and living, some straining to float with the use of life vests whilst others sank from life like the ship.

On the eerily calm sea under the expanse of brightest stars, Harold Bride has never felt so alone.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter also references a bit of Chapter 19 by quirkysubject :)
> 
> *In life, when Jack Phillips headed aft in front of Harold, that was the last time Harold saw him alive. 
> 
> *Men really did run up and down deck to get the last of the women onto the final lifeboats
> 
> *[This is](https://youtu.be/swEUHGAb_f8), to the best of my research and knowledge, the final song the band played as the Titanic sank that night (according to Harold Bride's testimony in _Titanic: First Accounts_ ). Information about what the ship looked like as she sank comes from his testimony as well.
> 
> *At 2:18 am the lights finally died, and 2:20 was when the ship foundered.
> 
> *Thomas Andrews remained on the ship to the end, throwing down whatever he could for passengers to use as life rafts. And the couple embracing on deck is Ida and Isidor Straus
> 
> Comments appreciated <3


	24. Chapter 24

Striking out across the water in search of anything on which to float, Harold's feet feel like lead, if lead had been stuck in the boilers and caught ablaze; the pain in them keeps him going, though, away from the ship - and some two hundred feet beyond her sunken hulk, he catches sight of a boat. 

His muscles are jerking and burning as he makes it almost to the side, and is ready to drop his arms and sink when several hands catch hold of him and haul him aboard. He recognises the same collapsible ship he'd attempted to help push off deck, and feels his feet shoved under the bracers of rough wood. Just beyond the upturned boat, a raft bobs.

There are movements and shiftings, a rope is tossed from the raft to tie through the nearest oar lock so as to keep both crafts close and upright. The raft seems sturdy enough, there are around ten people aboard, and a few upon the boat lunge over to equalise weight. Oars are passed up from their moorings within the collapsible, which means that some are jagged and broken nigh in half, yet the sturdy fellows on both raft and boat begin to work rowing away.

Harold finds himself shifted onto the raft, presently, and falls next to an icy body that's ceased to shiver, only expelling slow, gasping breaths. But as Harold turns his head, the facial features his eyes catch sight of are familiar.

"Phillips," he gasps and reaches out, drawing his senior operator close. "Jack, you're freezing!" This strong, incredible fellow - he had leapt into the ocean to steady this raft for the passengers to board, after remaining at his post beyond time to send a signal. "Brave man," Harold whispers, pushing his fingers through the other's dark hair which crackles with ice. 

Jack's dark lips, purple already and going blue, part. "Harold?" He whispers back. "Harry, 's tha' you?" The words that he utters are a soft slur.

"It's me, old man," the younger fellow attempts to smile. "We've made it off ship."

"An' she was a beauty," Jack swallows. "Sure 'nough. N' she dances in the sea...," His chest heaves in a spasm as his lungs seize from the icy water and surrounding air. Harold holds on to him, wishing for some way to get him warm, to help him out of this disorientation. Harold shifts and Jack's eyes sharpen just a bit. "Don't g - stay wi' me, Harry, please."

"Okay," Harold pulls Jack even tighter against himself, shifting so his head can rest up higher on Harold's shoulder. "I'm here, I've got you, Jack. I won't let go, alright?"

Jack's eyelids flutter as his breaths grow more laconic in nature. He manages to make a sound of thanks, eyes tracking across the onyx sky spotted with stars. It's not clear whether he sees them; his eyes are glassy, and Harold notes that Phillips had given his overcoat to a boy in the garb of an engineer, who is curled next to a little girl and another person he recognises - the tall form, the curls, the instrument case behind his shoulders, that he'd taken down to mess, and whose name he remembers - Brian.

***

Brian has stripped off his outermost layers of clothing to wrap around Cora, and Jack, and the gigantic coal trimmer Bill, who had come up clutching onto the side of the raft as the waves breaking over the last of the _Titanic_ 's stern fell. Cora has begun to whimper, and the Finnish woman and the stewardess both speak to her, crooning various soothing words. The newlyweds are huddled up together, George running a hand up and down his wife's arm. Both nod to Brian with slight smiles as he looks at them and then turns to the men currently paddling.

Four fellows now, including Bill, who'd dragged a huge chunk of wood out of the sea that looks like a banister to use as a makeshift oar, stand on the sides of the raft. No one is sure where they should head, except that, finding the north star will hopefully orient them... though they also haven't a clue from which direction help will come. And it is not helping to hear the cries and moans of men, calling out to God and for mother and soon after, for death. There's only room for three people to lie comfortably on their little raft, and even having four others sit is a hazard, which makes the pulling of oars need to remain slow and steady. 

Steady as stands John, hunched in his coveralls and Jack Phillips' overcoat, staring at the ocean around them.

"John," Brian curves a hand around his shoulder, and is instantly on alert as the younger man sags. "John! Hey mate,"

"Brian," John's lashes flutter as he blinks, shivering. 

"Hang on, you're freezing," Bri opens up his latest shirt to wrap around John, whose trembling fingers extend to stop him.

"Don't, Brian," John's throat bobs, eyes reflecting the sea as he looks up into Bri's face. "Keep - yourself warm. I don't...I can't feel anything."

Anything. _Oh, no._ "Just hang on, Deacy," using the nickname for the second time, Brian takes hold of John's arms and then his back, pulling the slighter man into him and rubbing his hands rapidly up and down John's body to warm him up. Have to get some feeling back. "Here, sit with me," he guides John onto the rough wood and partly into his own lap, curls feeling like icy snakes against his skin as Brian bows his head and feverishly works to keep John warm. To the side, in his own way, Harold Bride is doing the same. 

They've got to help each other here. Danger is far from over.

**On the ocean. 3am.**

Other boats bob and drift and head tiredly onward with backs bent over oars. Cries echo across the night, pleas and shouts, anger and despair. The denizens of the lifeboats sit in numb shock, some of them. Others speak up, adding their voices to cry about the men left behind... But no seaman will turn. The sailors have their goal and their orders, and they are to make for whatever ships are coming to save them and keep their own occupants safe.

Even as screams rise to assault their ears.

"Gone, all gone,"

"My husband is back there!"

"You senseless, awful -"

"Help us! Help us, _please!_ "

"We dare not save them, madam, they could upset the boat, I have orders!"

"I'll GIVE you orders, they're sending men to death!"

"Please... just... let's go on, don't make a fuss."

"For God's sake, sit down!"

"I will not!"

"If you do not sit I will throw you from this boat!"

"Better to die with them than live with you!"

Silence, before "It is my duty to keep you safe and set a course for the rescue ship, and that is all that I will do. Now for the last BLOODY time, shut up and sit down."

Fifth Officer Harold Lowe cares naught for any of that. His boat - every boat - has a sail and a mast in its centre, and he will be damned if there isn't room for more people, so he's got past fifty, so what? Andrews had set the lifeboats' capacity at upwards of eighty souls. Other boats can row madly for the help no one is sure will come, their officers are free to do so, following the orders of a captain no longer holding command. But again, he'll be damned.

"Right then," he says briskly to his sailors and the passengers in Lifeboat Fourteen. "We are going back. Everyone get to the centre around the mast, leave a bit of space and mind your heads. Light the lamp, Scarrot. She's coming about." He lifts the mast and unfurls the sail, and the light wind that ruffles the ocean as if it were a navy quilt takes hold of the canvas cloth, seizing and pulling it taut. "Alright, haul 'er out, steady, lads. Don't worry, madam," he reassures a lady passenger who makes a sharp sound. "Been windjamming afore, this'll get us round at near four knots. Here we go." Lifting his chin and adjusting his cuffs, Lowe utters "I cannot stand by as good men drown. Onward, lads!"

The single boat turns and heads back across the nearly-silent sea.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> As I said last chapter, the last Harold saw of Jack was heading aft, but I changed a bit of history because they did, in fact, end up on the collapsible boat together and I couldn't bear for the pair of heroic operators to spend the remainder of their night alone. I hope you will forgive me this slight historical alteration
> 
> "Lifeboat 14 was the only craft that turned back to rescue survivors from the sea. Officer Lowe was considered impulsive for his behaviour, yet he alone knew how to use the mast and sail from previous experience, and could not stand by.
> 
> Comments appreciated <3


	25. Chapter 25

**3:15 am. Somewhere in the north Atlantic.**

The first iceberg visible to any of the boats, though known to be the thing that sank their supposedly unsinkable ship, was by the mirrored reflection off from a star. A silvery white glow, and then beyond the first berg more and more grow visible, a full field of them. Some levity abounds "Look there's a polar bear scratching his back on that iceberg," someone says, but to most the sight is one of shock and awe, of despair and fear, and despondency that one of these chunks of ice had sent their ship down into the depths of the sounding sea. 

Flares are sent up from the lifeboats, red and green, and whatever other colours they had got from the crewmen who came aboard. The glory of doing one's duty and remaining at post "to write another glorious chapter in British history" as said by the lead steward before putting people in the lifeboats, is nearly forgotten; or rather, when spoken, followed by snorts of disdain.

Eyes look to the sky and to the horizon, praying for help to come as the oarsmen remain hard at work.

Harold tells all those on the raft and collapsible of the _Carpathia_ , and that she is to come for them; "Surely she is close, she was putting hard for us, wasn't she, Jack?" He asks his fellow operator, gently tapping Phillips on the cheek. 

Jack's skin is waxy and his breaths rattle out slower than ever, but "F-four hours," he grunts. "Four hours...away when starting. I sh-sh-should have gotten her so much more..." His words come in aborted gasps as he struggles for air.

"Shh, Jack, you did what you could. All you could, and then some. You're a hero, d'you hear me? Jack?"

Jack's lips are dark blue now, as dark as - or darker than - the nearly-black water around them. Brian is floored by the strength of this young man, of both of them, working tirelessly to get help for all.... He finds himself humming, John's head against his chest, face tilting up to listen as Brian can't help but begin to sing, so softly, words he'd thought of to detail their time upon the great ship _Titanic_ , and even this woeful night.

_"In the year of 1912, assembled here the Volunteers, for unsinkable ships were few -  
And our ship sailed out into the blue and sunny morn, the sweetest sight ever seen."_

Brian ducks his head, certain this is absolutely ridiculous, no one needs to hear his little shanty, but his pal from Uruguay has begun nodding, eyes alight, Cora sits by his knee, and John, tone soft and dry, offers "Keep on, Brian. What else have we got to do?"

_"Thus the night followed day - and the papers sure will say - that a thousand souls inside - for five full span of days sailed across the arctic sea, ne'er looked back, never feared, never cried._

_Don't you hear my call, tho' you're many miles away, don't you hear me calling you?  
Morse code missives may you send, and someday I'll call you friend, in the land of the red, white, and blue!"_

Brian's high, thin, gentle voice is clear across the quiet night, and something of the song brings them all together. To provide a small sense of comfort, he hopes, though his tone cracks on the words, a fragile wish for them all to be saved and meet again, perhaps, someday in America. Seems impossible, just now, or at the very least improbable, and yet

"...We will," there is Harold's staunch voice ringing out again. "We'll most surely meet, as we sent out those Morse messages. Don't you think so, Jack?" He asks his officer, who gasps, croaks out something like 'yes' before he adds words no one else can hear from where he lies pressed against Harold, clutching at his arm. The younger man moves to put his face over Jack's as he responds, hand cupping one of his friend's round cheeks. "I'm here, right here. I've got you. Y' know that, yeah?" 

It is quiet around now, horribly apropos to the lack of all sound and movement from the senior radio operator. Fingers have slackened and dropped from around Harold's arm, his dark lips are slightly parted and his glassy eyes are lifted up, unseeing, reflecting starlight in the depths of them. 

"Jack, hey, come on, stay with me, man. You've got to stay awake, _Carpathia's_ boats will be coming - she told us so, come on -" Harold's demeanor, so focused and calm, certain and cheery, intent on the ability to stay calm as he can and keep others alive up until this moment, breaks. On this hodgepodge wooden medley of a life raft is a terrified young man who has lost a dear friend and does not believe it. 

"Jack! Come on, Jack, no, no, oh no..." Harold tugs the other's limp and icy body into his arms, burying his face against Phillips' frigid neck and shoulder. "I'm not letting go," he bursts out. "Not leaving you. I'm here, right here. - He told me not to leave him," tears pour down and freeze on Harold's cheeks as he looks up at John and Brian, who both sit close. "And I'll stay awhile, until they come." His voice breaks in a high, choking, desperate sob as he lifts teary eyes to the heavens. "Oh, God, they have got to come!"

**3:25 am**

Officer Lowe sends his boat across the ocean skipping along at four knots, heading for the wreckage of the _Titanic_. He blows his whistle in sharp blasts as he nears the last position of the ship, telling passengers to balance weight and keep their eyes peeled for movement.

"Is anyone alive out there?!" He roars as his assistants begin tacking. "-steady on, that's it. This is Officer Lowe, we've come back for you!"

There is a horrible span of silence at first, and every nerve in his body is screaming at Lowe for being a fool. But nevertheless he presses on. "This is Lifeboat Fourteen, if you can hear me, anyone, please make your presence known!"

There are weak shouts, then, and a whistling, and passengers pointing and calling "There! There's someone," and Lowe feels a weight lift off his heart as he puts the boat for a man, eyes shining in their lamplight, another pair that look frozen, entwined together on a wooden door, looks like, and several bobbing in the water, one having clutched onto some spar. Lowe works his way back and forth around and across the wreckage, eyes at last caught by what appears to be one of the collapsibles ahead, a raft alongside, people rowing with all of their might.

As they make it alongside the upturned boat, a rushing spear of light shoots upwards and fills the sky in the distance, too far removed to be any of their flares. Lowe's eyes fill with tears as whoops and hollers rise, and a voice calls "It's the _Carpathia_! She signals to us!" 

Murmuring a few unintelligible words, the officer nods and says "Alright, we'll keep alongside and head on to _Carpathia_. Keep 'er steady as she goes." His voice breaks slightly. "We are to be saved."

It is three-thirty on the morning of April fifteenth.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter timeframe is over the course and past the end of chapter 20 from quirkysubject's work :)
> 
> *The first steward did, in fact, inform all of the others that this would be a glorious chapter in British history - whether he was sure they'd save everyone aboard the ship or was attempting to keep everyone's spirits up, I've no idea
> 
> *I've included more of the... rewritten? 1910s version of Brian's song '39. I am not a songwriter so I hope it works at least a little
> 
> *Jack Phillips did die in the collapsible, Harold Bride testified to seeing his body in that boat and passing him as he was taken onto the _Carpathia_. I just... I couldn't bear to have Jack expire alone here
> 
> *The flares of the _Carpathia_ were sighted at 3:30 am, it took until 4:10 for the ship to reach the first lifeboats.
> 
> I think this only needs one more chapter after all, what do you think?
> 
> Comments appreciated <3


	26. Chapter 26

As the flares from the _Carpathia_ , and thus the ship itself, come ever closer, folks on the oars of the raft switch places, and someone from the collapsible has the idea to tie the raft to Lifeboat Fourteen as she moves over the sea, steadily, though slower with the sail tied partway so as not to overturn the raft with her momentum. Other boats come alongside and passengers are shifted until Fourteen has nearly seventy passengers within. 

Brian shifts and looks at John, pushing the engineer's hair off his pale forehead. "John," he whispers, shaking the other man's shoulder before resting his forehead against John's, clenching his teeth to force himself not to beg, to say _stay with me, I can't face this life alone_ \- especially as Harold still slumps, curled around Jack's body and holding his immobile friend in his arms. 

But John opens his eyes. They'd been closed as he conserves his strength, trying not to groan from the pain he feels throughout his body, this endless ache that has started - but it's so much better to feel something, anything, even pain. Especially pain, because he knows that were he to feel warm and comfortable suddenly, it would likely mean he was near death because of the cold. Ironic, that. "I'm alright, Brian," he murmurs, shifting in Bri's arms. "Just a little cold." 

The collosal understatement of that comment makes Brian laugh, and then he starts to cry as they have been passing the bodies of people who were cold, too; who got too ruddy cold and tired and couldn't be saved in time; who weren't safe in the first place because of decisions made aboard the ship they were on; people who were not considered worth enough to be worried about, and here they all are on this icy ocean, dead or dying - the magnitude of all of this, the terror and unfairness and idiocy of this voyage, of this night overwhelms him, and Brian buries his face into John's shoulder and hangs on to him. He feels something brush across the back of his head, once and again and then again. 

John has shifted his hand to Brian's head and pushes his fingers through the taller man's thick curls, as he had done when Brian was at the piano, playing out his heart. Here he is doing the same, baring his heart in sorrow and sobs for everyone on the ship, everyone alive and yet mostly for the dead. Yet not all are dead. "Brian," he whispers. "We're still here, Bri. We're alive. The other ship is coming for us, and we'll make it aboard her, and...we can talk about this. We can tell the story, make sure this sort of disaster doesn't happen again, y'know. We can do that." John withdraws his face a bit, enough to extricate his fingers from Brian's hair and stroke across his cheeks instead. "I'm here, you're here, mate. Let's not... let's not waste that. We can't. I can't." His voice cracks and agony shoots through his stormy eyes. "My crewmates..."

"So many of them are gone. Oh, John," Brian is horrified, he clutches the engineer's upper arms. "How stupidly insensitive of me, I'm so sorry -"

"Just, no, shut it, Bri." Brian's eyes widen. The sharp stare, the tone, it's so much like the way Roger would speak. Feeling flares in Brian's heart as he hopes desperately that Rog is all right. But John grabs onto him and looks at him and says "We're in this together, now, mate." 

Brian nods as John looks at him, waiting for a response, resting their foreheads together as their breath mingles. Bri's eyes crinkle at the edges, they are deep and warm and full of so many things as he looks at John then, but most of what he feels is thankfulness. He isn't alone. They are not alone.

He keeps on thinking that as the sky begins to lighten; boats from the _Carpathia_ appear beside them and lead theirs to the ship, as others head past, back to the wreck for any more survivors. Sailors haul them up the gangways and provide them with blankets and with brandy, taking them to cabins as they can, and to mess, and settling them on deck with smiles and sympathetic murmurs and gentle hands. 

Harold passes Jack at last, putting him into the care of others as Harry himself mist be taken care of. "I learnt to love him," Harold said, seeming half-delirious from exhaustion, but he spoke as if he meant it, and Brian and John look at each other from their spaces settled on the deck. Brian almost hesitantly reaches out and John takes his hand, squeezing Brian's elegant fingers with his slightly stouter calloused ones. Learnt to love, indeed. Hazel-brown eyes gaze into grey-green. Never have they heard truer words spoken. 

"All that we know is behind us, only wishes and dreams are ahead." Brian speaks thus, recalling Thomas Andrews saying such words as he gazed across the sea. Hoping for better things in all his empathetic decency. And Brian sees such things here - the stewardess handing warm broth to men, the sailors coming up from the brig of this ship to assist everyone coming from the _Titanic_. Captain asking for aid on behalf of the _Carpathia's_ wireless operator and so Harold goes directly there, shaking hands with everyone from the raft, and all those on his way, wishing all well. Sven and Digs finding each other and crowing in rapid-fire Swedish. A first-class woman giving up her furs to keep a girl in a ragged dress warm. Fifth Officer Lowe still rowing round in his lifeboat until eight-thirty in the morning to ensure everyone is back aboard this ship safe on their way to reach New York. 

Brian will think on Thomas's words when he tests his bowstring again, hears the screech of his violin that can still be salvaged with parts and love; he will see it in a pair of laughing blue eyes and gleaming teeth and a promise made and honoured to play together, adding in the folks from Uruguay who survive as background singers; he sees it in the crew, in the care passengers take of each other as they make it at last to land and shout at reporters to go away as they've just seen their husbands drown. He feels it in the strength John has, exhibits when standing beside him and lacing his fingers with Brian's, swearing he is going to go right to whatever agency can help Cora find her family as soon as they reach New York; and saying afterwards that he must go down to check on whereabouts of others from the crew, to discover who else had survived. 

No matter how long he'll stay or how soon he must leave, Brian knows there is hope in wishes and dreams even as in what is already known there remains so much of sadness. He knows that he must go on, and that with help, he can be strong.

You're all, we're all, we're all, for always.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> *Harold Bride did say he learned to love Jack Phillips on the night the _Titanic_ sank for all his bravery. Harold also passed Jack's body on his way into the ship _Carpathia_ , and was asked to assist her radio operator after getting warmed up &c.
> 
> *The last lifeboats were reached around 8:30 am and Officer Lowe did remain in his to help with the search
> 
> If it is at all unclear, Brian and John see Freddie and Roger again.  
> I planned to make this a bit longer, but something tells me to end it here. 
> 
> I dedicate this work to all of the people on the _Titanic_ whose names are not recalled by history, but who died aboard her and should not be forgotten. And to the brave souls who strove to save all they could. To the firemen, engineers, electricians, coal trimmers; to Harold Bride and Jack Phillips, to Captain Smith and Thomas Andrews. 
> 
> To quirkysubject, to Queen, and to you, for reading. Many thanks <3
> 
> Comments appreciated


End file.
